


I See It All So Clear

by inhindsights



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M, Idiots in Love, catherine saves the day, fucking corny, tswift references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5560063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inhindsights/pseuds/inhindsights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She peers at him from the corner of her eye, and sees a tiny smile on his lips, like the sun peeking out from the clouds. Hooking her leg over his, Mary tucks her head into the crook of his neck, her breathing in tune to his heartbeat. Out of nowhere, something hits her with indomitable force — the dawning realization that she may have a shot at building a future with him after all.</p><p>Francis and Mary argue over hot chocolate with marshmallows, get into a pathetic snowball fight, wear matching winter gloves, and Francis has a special surprise in store for Mary just in time for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See It All So Clear

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, it's weird posting a Christmas fic after the actual holiday lmao I have absolutely no idea how this came to be over 20k words, but here we are. Surprisingly, I had fun writing Catherine and Bash as avid supporters of Francis and Mary's relationship (though Catherine doesn't want to admit it haha). The story is set in New York, which doesn't really matter tbh other than it's a modern au fic. There's lots of fluff and playful banter and some smut in this one, but then again when do I not love writing such trash for these two idiots lmao
> 
> Title's from "Crystals" by Of Monsters And Men.
> 
> Also, it took 10 years to write this so enjoy :)

"It's _Christmaaaaaaaaas_ _!"_

Mary rolls her eyes.

It's December first, for god's sake.

She looks up from her copy of the 'New York Times', and watches in amusement as her boyfriend, Francis Valois, skips across the living room, humming the tune to 'Jingle Bells' merrily.

Her _boyfriend_.

She and Francis have been dating for seven months now — more than half a year. And it’s going remarkably well; a major feat really, considering how her previous relationships all crashed and burned. In a nutshell, they ended due to two reasons: either the guy (an asshole, usually) lamented she wasn't committed enough in their relationship, or — a pathetic lie, the former was usually the case— she lost interest in him gradually. 

To her, how it ended didn't matter at all. Regardless, she tore all of her relationships to shreds. Several hookups and breakups later, and still, the first thought that occurred to her as she plunged into yet another relationship remained: How _soon_ was this going to end?

She always had a fatalistic approach to love. As a coping mechanism, she convinced herself well enough to believe her relationships were merely hookups, and nothing more. There was no emotional spark (Nada, zero.) in them, which resulted in them ironically going down in flames.

With Francis, she gave it an optimistic two months.

She remembers: her gaze falling on him from across the dimly lit bar, instantly feeling a compelling, unfathomable pull towards him. She remembers: by some coincidence, he glanced at her then, as if sensing the tension of her gaze, before looking down at his drink. She remembers: taking the last sip of her whisky, wondering if he felt it as well, the pull, or whatever it was. She remembers: dismissing the asinine thought, and calling the bartender for another drink. She remembers: her gaze drifting back to him against her own volition. 

Two months, she was sure, and the entire course of their relationship would be over, no wind in its sails. Two months later, she realizes she was wrong — absolutely miscalculated. She wasn't used to how much she smiled around him, let alone enjoyed somebody's company this much.

She'd never expected — well, okay, maybe she'd _hoped_ — their relationship would turn out this well. Of course, they had arguments as normal couples do, but they were mostly squabbles, not those spitting-words-of-venom-at-one-another fights. By some twisted fate, here she is, sharing his apartment, about to enter the eighth month of her relationship with him. For as long as she can remember, she thinks she's pretty close to contentment.

She groans as she puts down the newspaper on the table, crossing her arms in her lap, lips pursed.

"Come on, Mary, you have to get into the Christmas mood." He pouts — _god_ , she hates his ridiculously cute pout — and turns around, only to be greeted with her exasperated face.

"But there's still exactly 24 days to Christmas! I'm not feeling very Christmassy right now. It's totally logical," she says adamantly, waving a hand at him dismissively.

He bargains, "At least help me with decorating the tree tonight." Francis points to the miserable-looking tree rotting away in the corner. Feeling hesitant, she shrugs vaguely in his direction.

It's a horrible idea to look up at him then. He's playing his ace; he stares at her with his blue, pleading eyes, his hands clasped in his lap.

Sure enough, she feels her breathing quicken, the sight of him tugging at her heartstrings. She compares him to a tiny, golden puppy — actually, it's quite hard to distinguish between the two — and nearly _swoons._  

Unable to suppress a smile, she finally relents, "Fine."

He beams at her and walks to the storage room.

Minutes later, he reappears in the living room with two large cardboard boxes of Christmas ornaments in his arms, and settles them down under the tree in the same corner.

"I'm just taking them out first. You know, to be prepared," he explains a little awkwardly, his hands gesturing vaguely to the two boxes, a resolute expression on his face.

She lets out a bubble of giggle at his failed attempt to hide his palpable excitement.

****

Later that night, they order Chinese takeout for dinner. 

She suggests ordering pizza ("One doesn't simply tire of having pizza, Francis. I'll specially remove the pineapples for you, okay?"), but Francis insists that they ought to eat something other than pizza for once ("We've had pizza for the past three days, Mary, and Friday date night does _not count_."), and looks at her sternly.

They bicker over it childishly before Francis tackles her to the mattress, whips out his phone from his jean pocket, and dials the Chinese restaurant by their apartment. Hanging up after placing the order, he smirks at her, and she whacks him with a pillow. She doesn't complain after they spend half an hour making out on the mattress.  

She's clearing the table after dinner when he taps her lightly on the shoulder.

"What is it?"

He directs her attention to his phone, her eyes settling on the bright screen, and realizes that he's visited a Wikihow page, titled 'How To Decorate A Christmas Tree Elegantly'.

"Francis, you can't be serious," she laughs, wondering if anyone actually follows a guide when decorating his or her Christmas tree.

"No, look at this," he scrolls down and gestures to the small text on the screen. She squints at it, slightly confused as to what he's trying to say.

"It says there are different species of Christmas trees! This one here is called the 'Rose Royce', and look, there's other one called the 'Scotch Pine'," he rambles — wait, isn't that supposed to be her _thing_? — quite adorably, staring at the screen in awe.

"They're just trees!" She contests, shaking her head incredulously. 

" _Christmas_ trees," he rectifies, his nose wrinkling in the way it does when he's amused, the gesture inordinately endearing.

"God, you're so unbelievably cute," she says. "I have such a cute boyfriend."

She scrunches her nose and is taken by surprise when Francis presses a kiss to the bridge of her nose.

She feels her face warm, a blush creeping up her neck.

They make their way to the kitchen, his hand resting on her small back, and they start washing the dishes.

\--

A month ago, she decided to broach the subject of her moving into his apartment.

They were sprawled out over the couch in his apartment, listening to Taylor Swift.

They had once attended her concert together back in July, and had worn couple shirts with _'King'_ and _'Queen'_ printed in bold letters. Prior to the concert, Mary had revealed to him proudly, "It's a nod to 'Blank Space', you know." Francis had rolled his eyes and found it rather lame. That was until he had heard TSwift sing, "You're the King, baby, I'm your queen," during the concert, voice booming through the arena, and they had completely _lost_ their minds, bouncing up and down like gleeful children, arms around one another, and heads bobbling to the music, engrossed in the moment.

She heard the sound of tiny raindrops pattering against the window, accompanying the soft music in the background.

She was wearing one of his oversized shirts — a Hawaiian one, which totally screamed _him_ — after staying over the previous night. Just this morning, she was too lazy to reach for her pajamas on the far end of the room, so she conveniently reached for his shirt lying on the bed. She smiled at Francis, who was burrowed deep into the bed, as she pulls it over her head. Yawning, she sauntered into the kitchen and started making toast for breakfast, the shirt hanging loosely over her body.

The next song came on, and she heard the familiar beats of _Stay Stay Stay_ playing through the speakers. 

Cuddled next to him, she felt his breath all warm and tingly on her neck. His eyes were closed, his fingers running up and down her shoulder habitually.

She quietly hums in tune to the song and stares at the ceiling.

_You took the time to memorize me:_

_My fears, my hopes, and dreams._

_I just like hanging out with you all the time._

_All those times that you didn't leave;_

_It's been occurring to me I'd like to hang out with you for my whole life._

"Francis." She broke the silence, and reached over him to hit pause on the music.

He looked up at her, sensing that she had something on her mind to discuss.

She took a deep breath, and fidgeted in her lap. "I've been thinking," she started nervously.

"I want to move in here. In your apartment," she continued, her voice gaining confidence as the words escaped her lips.

Swallowing hard, she further prompted him. "What do you think?"

She tried to gauge his reaction, but his face only drew an inscrutable expression.

He says, " _Our_ apartment. I like the sound of that. 

She tried to mask her surprise, blinking at him.

"Are-are you sure?" she stumbled on her words, unconvinced that he’s serious.

He assented, "Mary, we've been together for six months now. Of course I’d love for you to move in." He gave her a slight nod and grinned.

She let out a sound of relief, and threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh, I'm so glad. You have no idea," she mumbled into his neck, grateful that he can't see tears welling up in her eyes. She fought to stop them from spilling over. 

Draping his arm over her middle, he asked, "So, when do you want to move in?"

"Tomorrow," she replied, certainty coloring her voice.

He nodded in response and chuckled softly, pushing his fingers into her tousled hair.

"So impatient," he teased, fingering the hem of his oversized shirt that she was wearing.

(She likes wearing his shirts — they all smell like him.)

"Shut up. So that's a yes, then?"

"Yeah, tomorrow's perfect."

****

They move the tree to the middle of the living room with tremendous effort. When they're done, there are beads of sweat plastered on Mary's forehead. "That is one heavy tree," she comments wryly, exhaling deeply and fanning herself with both hands.

He carries the boxes of ornaments over to where they're standing and settles them down. Glancing over the boxes, she groans softly, dreading the work ahead of them.

"Francis, do we really have to do this now?" she asks, sulking, "I think I may need some persuasion after all." With that, he inches closer to her, cups her cheek with one hand, and gives her a sweet, lingering kiss on the lips.

Pulling back, she inhales deeply and acquiesces, "That'll do. For now."

He laughs in response, clearing his throat.

She squats down and removes a few ornaments from the boxes in a meticulous fashion, the dim ceiling light casting a faint glow on them. Over her shoulder, she watches as Francis takes out strings of Christmas lights from a plastic bag dumped on the couch. Noticing that some ornaments are slightly scratched and the glitter on them fading, she inquires curiously, "Are these recycled?" She holds up one of them to him.

He glances at it as he approaches her with the lights. "Yeah, I don't like spending money on Christmas decorations every year. So I recycle them until they're beyond repair," he explains with a chuckle, pulling a face.

Mary tilts her head at him, her gaze trained playfully on him.

"Maybe it's because you're always spending all your money on vinyl records," she points out.

****

One time, he brought her to his most frequented record store downtown, and they spent a whooping two hours inside. She listened with undivided attention as Francis introduced her to his favorite bands and artists, and even gone on to tick off all the reasons why he loved their music. Hearing him speak with fervent enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling like diamonds, she wasn't sure if she remembered how it was like not to want someone this much.

“Do all band names sound this _emo_?" she asked him, after learning his favorite band of all-time was Coldplay. 

He laughed at her playful remark, his lips thinning into a smile. 

After bidding him goodbye at the subway station, she listened to one of Coldplay’s hit singles, titled 'Fix You' (which Francis claims to be the "best song in existence") on the way home, which nearly broke her into tears in public. 

That night, she listened to the song once more as she tucked herself into bed. Before she knew it, she was burying her face in her pillow, her sobs muffled. How can something so awfully sad be so incredibly beautiful at the same time? The world was a cruel, depressing place, indeed. She figured this must be the song that was played after a woman’s lover, her one true love, died in a movie, echoing her sorrow and grief. Masochistically, she allowed her mind to wander about that _one thing_ , and she berated herself for it silently.

She paused, getting a really ugly feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Pulling the covers over her, she almost wished he were lying beside her. Instead, he decided to text him, as if needing some intangible confirmation that he was still with her. _Emotionally_ , she thought stupidly.

 _'Fix You' killed me. Thanks, asshole_ she texted him, staring at the chat until she heard a ping. 

_You're welcome_

_No, really. I'm in literal tears_

_Do you want me to come over?_ he replied almost instantly.

 _Nah, I'll be fine :)_  

Another ping. _Alright :) Sleep well babe_

She texted back, _You too, see you Friday night. We have a Jessica Jones marathon to kick-start. And I'm bringing alcohol over_  

Francis' response is a string of the heart eyes emoji.

****

What she doesn't tell him: a few days ago, she ordered a limited edition of Coldplay's newly-released record — 'A Head Full Of Dreams' — online, as her Christmas gift to him.

Ha, so much for her chastising him for singing carols 24 days ahead of Christmas. 

She returns her gaze as he jokes, "Hey, that's not fair. Those records are my everything; my heart and soul." 

"Hm, what about me?" 

"Mary, you are my light." He returns sincerely, before leaning over to graze her chin with his thumb. 

She looks at him for a long minute, thinking how he uttered every syllable with simple conviction.

Without any filter, she blurts out, "Huh, you're really good with your mouth." It takes her a few embarrassing moments to register the sensuous nature of her poorly worded reply.

Her cheeks flare as she watches his eyes flicker down to her lips. Grudgingly, she tears her gaze from him, focuses on the task at hand, and hangs up the ornaments neatly on the tree with newfound speed.

Francis regards her with amusement and laughs. 

"I have such a cute girlfriend." He remarks, mirroring her words from before.

She grins smugly, unable to take her eyes off him.

"Hm, aren't you lucky."

She’s almost finished decorating half of the tree when he mutters under his breath, "Crap."

"What's wrong?"

He shakes his head in frustration, running a hand through his hair. "I can't believe I forgot to hang the lights first. They're supposed to be hung before the ornaments and ribbons."

She casts a questioning look at him, furrowing her brow. "Does it really matter? I think the tree will still look magical at the end, anyway." Sensing his disappointment, she scoots over to him, and rubs her thumb over his palm reassuringly. His expression softens immediately, and he manages a smile.

"You're right, we can just decorate it our style. Switching things up is fun as well."

"Our style," she echoes, frowning slightly at the ugly Christmas sweater Francis is wearing.

(She didn't pick it out for him; she has a certain standard, obviously.)

Francis pushes the lights aside, and decides, "Let's just decorate the lights at the end."

Unknowingly, she starts singing the lyrics to _Style_ passionately. "And when we go crashing down, we come back every time. We never go out of style--"

Upon hearing her sing, he chuckles and clears his throat. "Babe, I love you, I really do. But seriously, you should hear yourself sing sometime."

She scowls at Francis and purses her lips, but her expression hardly construes as anger to him.

"Just because I can't sing doesn't mean I _won't_ ," she retorts with an air of nonchalance. "Your singing voice isn't great, either," she chides — again, there's no heat in it.

In response, he does an Adele impression and belts out the high note in _Hello_ , his voice the droning sound of a dying whale.

Needless to say, it sends Mary into a fit of laughter.

They debate whether they should take a short break now. (Francis even jokes, “Yeah, we should totally just jump into bed and make out, right?") With much willpower, they decide against it.

Ten minutes later, Mary is resting lazily on the couch, her slender legs hanging awkwardly from the armrest, and her face pressed into a cushion.

She hears a shuffling noise, and looks up to see that Francis is about to finish hanging up the ornaments and ribbons on the tree. 

She feels her heart stop, and goes totally still when he climbs atop her, his eyes a startling shade of blue.

His hand rises to cup her cheek, his thumb running over her lips. She looks at him, at his tender expression, and feels that familiar ache in her chest pulling at her. She swears she can feel herself _want_ him, an insatiable need surging through her.

Before she can think twice, she arches up to kiss him, tufting her fingers in his blonde curls. She changes the angle of their kiss, their mouths open and wet with tongues pressing against each other. She makes a soft, contented sound, his hand running up her thigh. She gasps and he swallows the sound, sucking her tongue into his mouth. 

They break apart, breathing heavily, noses nuzzling. Francis licks his lips. "Mary," he breathes into the scant space between them.

"I'm going to make us some hot chocolate," she says, a shy smile gracing her features, her lips slightly swollen. He nods, albeit reluctantly, touches the hem of her plaid button-down idly, and gazes at her longingly as she rises from the couch.

In the kitchen, she opens one of the top cabinets, gingerly takes out a medium-sized container filled with cocoa powder, and places it on the counter. She busies herself with preparing the hot chocolate, pausing halfway, and craning her neck to look at Francis. Realizing he's already staring at her, she blushes and bites her lip.

Part of her, though, thinks he was staring at her the whole time, and she can’t help but savor this delicious _feeling_ stirring in her belly.

She pours hot water into two ceramic mugs and stirs it with the cocoa powder, breathing in the fragrant smell of chocolate. Tearing open a bag of marshmallows, she's pulled out of her stupor when she feels his arms twisting around her waist. Instantly, she relaxes against him.

"It smells really good." Pushing some of her hair away, he drops a light kiss on her shoulder. "I know." She grins stupidly — she’s _so_ in love with him — at her small achievement. He rests his chin on her shoulder as she pops (one too many) marshmallows in her hot chocolate. "None for me," he tells her as he gestures to the marshmallows.

She puts down the bag of marshmallows on the counter and whips around in his arms to face him.

He frowns slightly at her, but Mary is unable to process it.

Her eyes grow impossibly wide. "Wait, you _don't_ like marshmallows in your hot chocolate?"

"Yeah," he replies, raising an eyebrow at her.

She gapes at him. Just absolutely and completely — gapes.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" 

"Jesus, you must be immune to love or something," she says evenly, her voice low but vehement. 

When he doesn't respond, she rolls her eyes dramatically, and pointedly gives him a look of disdain.

Finally, after what seems like a thousand years, he releases her and goads, "I'm not." 

"Hm, interesting,” she says simply, wrenching her gaze from him. 

Honestly, she’s dumbfounded – how can anyone not like marshmallows in their hot chocolate? _Like how you don’t like eating pizza crusts,_ comes a tiny voice at the back of her mind unexpectedly.

Sheesh. 

Leaning against the counter, she shakes her head in mock disappointment at him, and heaves a loud sigh.

She's ashamed to be dating him.

Which: ouch.

Tapping her fingers against the cabinet below the counter, she tuts. "Why am I even in love with you?"

"Because I am, and I _quote_ , a 'sex god'?" He smirks at her as she flushes, looking up at him. "You drunk-texted me that, don't you remember?" She can tell Francis is trying to hold back his laughter. 

"What? Er - when did I ever…" she motions with her hands in the air, some vague gesture that means absolutely nothing. Damn him, she was _drunk_ , for god's sake. Let the woman live.

Mary cringes at the memory, making a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.

"God, Francis, shut up."

He keeps talking — because, well, he's really good with his mouth — and she can tell he's enjoying this. "Tell me, when was the exact moment when you first recognized my special skills?" he demands cockily, in a tone that suggests he's gladly taken the benefit of the doubt, establishing himself as _the_ sex god.

Okay, well, she has to admit she wasn’t lying then, and there’s still truth in it now. There’s one time where they made a bet: whoever has the most orgasms buys the other breakfast. She lost to him (2-4, unbelievable) easily, and he couldn’t wipe the smirk off his face. Truth be damned, she wasn’t going to hand him such gratification on a sliver platter; not when he knows it damn well himself.

Instead, she shoots him a look as she tries to stifle a guffaw from spilling out from behind her lips. With what must be the stupidest retort ever, she ruffles his curls with mild vindictiveness, and it earns an unimpressed grunt from him.

Smiling to herself, she brings the two mugs out and sets them down on the coffee table atop coasters. Plopping herself down on the hardwood floor, she takes a sip of her hot chocolate and sighs, satisfied with the flavor. The marshmallows really take it to a whole new level.

Francis comes over and sits next to her.

Their backs rest against the couch, and they savor their hot chocolate. Cradling her warm mug with both hands, she’s grateful for the silence that ensues.

They don't speak for several long moments. Their breathing is the only sound between them, and Mary thinks about lazy Sunday afternoons spent (almost entirely) in bed, laughing at his corny jokes and him feeding her cereal, tiny bits of it scattered all over the mattress, the light streaming in from the window softly bouncing off his lovely features. She thinks about holding his hand while they walked from the record store to the subway station. She thinks about their binge-watching sessions on Netflix, curled around one another on the couch, yelling profanities at the TV screen ("Kilgrave is such a fucking _dick!”_ ). She thinks about dinners at hole-in-the-wall restaurants by their apartment, about the way he would sometimes reach across the table and gently tuck the loose strains of her wavy hair behind her ear, the modest gesture more intimate than she'd ever known. Mary thinks about how the last seven months with Francis have been so much more than just sex, and she briefly wonders if it'd only been her who felt that way at the time.

She peers at him from the corner of her eye, and sees a tiny smile on his lips, like the sun peeking out from the clouds. Hooking her leg over his, Mary tucks her head into the crook of his neck, her breathing in tune to his heartbeat. Out of nowhere, something hits her with indomitable force — the dawning realization that she may have a shot at building a future with him after all.

And she wants it.

"Boyfriend," she says suddenly as her brown eyes trace over his face. 

She feels an incredible sensation spread through her, like sparks on every nerve ending.

The words slip from his mouth. "I'm yours, you're mine."

A beat. Then, she looks up at him, their shoulders brushing. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says slowly, "It's real."

She laces her fingers with his. Inexplicably, she feels as though those words had been uttered to her at some point, in some past life. 

Without a word, he presses a kiss to their entwined hands.

Their empty mugs sit on the coffee table, the smell of hot chocolate still lingering in the air.

**** 

The days go by in a blur, and Christmas is just around the corner.

On Sunday morning, she starts stirring in bed at about ten. She can feel Francis’ fingers stroking her shoulder familiarly, like an endless, soothing rhythm. She stirs enough just to realize he’s the big spoon, and she smiles to herself. It’s almost like _all_ of him is touching her — his body pressed against hers, skin to skin, one arm draped over her middle, his face perfectly tucked in the crook of her neck.

“Morning." 

She turns over to look at him, their faces now only inches apart. “You too,” she returns, and pauses tersely, because her words make absolutely no sense. Groaning slightly, she recoils inward and rubs her eyes. The sight of her induces a laugh from him, and he leans in to place a chaste kiss on her lips. She blinks blearily at him, and snuggles closer to him.

She opens her mouth to say something, but the intensity of his stare causes her to flush from her chest to her hairline. A few beats pass, and she manages to find her voice.

“I wish I had met you when I was young.” She expresses, a wistful note in her voice, and strokes his cheek 

At that, Francis props himself up on one elbow, his eyes perking up slightly in attentiveness.

“Sometimes, I daydream about the two of us chasing each other around a playground in the park, and you always catching up to me so quickly, because, well, your legs are so much longer than mine. I wonder how my life would turn out to be if I met you during my childhood years, which, in reality, wasn’t so great. My parents had jobs, and I was left alone at home for most of the time.” She forces a stiff laugh at the end, veering her eyes to the wall facing them.

He runs a hand up her thigh, and the touch makes her quiver slightly. “Mary…I--” he falters, not entirely sure how to approach the subject. “I know,” she answers simply, her lips quirked into a half-smile, reaching out to trace her index finger over his shoulder blade. “I just want you to know that, I wish we had a lifetime of adventures together, dating back to the time when we were children — just a girl and a boy. The rest of my life, regretfully, doesn’t amount to a lifetime with you. And god knows it isn’t enough, whatever the time we’ve had, or have left together.”

Saying all of it, she suddenly feels so _exposed_ , as if she’s baring her soul to him. She averts her gaze, unable to bring herself to look at him, at the love in his eyes.

A long silence stretches between them.

“I think about that too; all of the things that we would have done as children: pillow fights, hide-and-seek, playing video games.” His words are chosen carefully, and she knows he doesn’t want to hurt her.

Francis tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear, before lifting her chin with his thumb, forcing her gaze up at him. 

“But what really matters is now, Mary, and I’m the luckiest man on the planet to be blessed with the opportunity to love you — _all_ of you.” 

She feels her heart race, in the damn cliché way, and only stares at him, stupefied.

“I know you’re afraid. I know you think that somehow, I’m going to slip out of your fingers and you’re going to blame it on yourself. I know you think you’re cursed in love, because you’ve had some shitty experiences with men in your life. None of that is true; you’re not cursed, and I’m never going to leave you. I love you, Mary. You must know that.”

She knows, she really does.

She waits a few moments before closing the scant distance between them.

She kisses him then, repositioning herself so that she’s on top of him this time. She can tell he’s mesmerized; by the way he blinks owlishly at her, gazing at her wide-eyed like she’s the only thing that could hold his attention.

“I love you, too.” 

She watches as Francis smiles, his expression slowly shifting until it reaches his eyes. It’s dazzling, and it’s her turn to stare now, completely transfixed.

Gripping her hips, he pushes her back down to the mattress, his body now hovering above hers. The sudden movement startles her, and she scrambles to reorient herself. “Francis!” He presses his lips to the inside of her thigh, and she bites her lip.

“Say it again.”

Mary blushes then, and chooses to ignore his request primly — for now — to derive the satisfaction and thrill from making him wait, and want her more. Reaching to her side, she grabs a pillow and hides her face in it.

In an instant, it’s gone from her face and tossed to the floor. “What?” She shoots him a too-innocent look. With that, he launches a series of tickles on her, his hands relentless and roaming all over her body. In response, she giggles, the precious sound echoing through the room, and half-protests, “No, no, no, stop!” He doesn’t stop -- not when she’s pushing her hands against his chest, her face cracking with a grin.

The sight of her lips distracts him, and before she knows it, he’s kissing her hard on the mouth, biting down on her lip, then sliding his tongue over it to soothe the hurt.

He’s pleased when it earns a gasp from her and a breathy moan of his name.

“I’m still waiting.” Francis levels a flat look at her and her grin impossibly widens. “I love you, too,” she repeats, and it’s like something blossoming in her chest. Something filled with sunshine and rainbows and hot chocolate with marshmallows. She manages to find the right words when she sees it so clearly reflected in his blue eyes. It’s like fucking _fireworks_ in her chest, shooting sparks in every direction. Her train of thought is interrupted when he captures her lips again, the kiss so electric she swears her toes curl.

They doze, and when she stirs again, it’s past noon. Mary sees his blue eyes first thing upon waking, and she unabashedly thinks she could stare at them for hours; how an ocean would pale in comparison to the depths of his eyes.

He’s nestled next to her, his breathing even, his arm splayed over her middle. Mary twirls a finger round his curls and sighs. “Your hair is so beautiful,” she marvels, and is rewarded with a lingering kiss on her lips. He reaches out blindly to trace her hipbone with his thumb, and says, “So are you.”

She giggles like a fool in love, and murmurs in her most seductive voice, “Why, thank you, Mr. Valois.”

Quite expectedly, he flushes at that then, and runs a hand through his hair. Her satisfaction is short-lived when her stomach rumbles obnoxiously loud. They both freeze, and Francis lets out a boisterous laugh. “Ah, shut up.” She mutters, crossing her arms over her stomach defensively.

“Wanna go get breakf—I mean, brunch?” He asks, smiling.

She offers, “Well, I can cook up a mean omelet, if you want.” He strokes her cheek, shakes his head, and politely declines, “That’s a very kind offer, but you’ve cooked a lot recently, Mary, so I’d like to take you somewhere nice today.”

“Okay.” She smiles, and gets up to dress. She reaches for her bra on the floor, and puts it on while facing him, no longer self-conscious about her nakedness, which she only reserves for him to see. She notices him staring at her and licking his lips, transfixed.

****

They both order toasted waffles with whipped cream at the coffee shop by their apartment. He’s wearing a plain white button-down, black jeans, and timberland boots; she’s clad in a dark grey star-printed sweater, faded blue jeans and black ankle boots, their coats slung over the chairs behind them.

They don’t stop touching each other after they’ve placed their order.

Mary tells him, “So, I bumped into Bash the other day while on my way to work.”

****

Bash is Francis’ older brother -- the problematic one.

As in, _getting sent to detention in high school for pulling some witty jape at the substitute teacher_ problematic. But that’s another story.

Mary gets along with Bash well, and even views him as a brother figure in her life.

Sometimes when she and Francis fought, she would rant to Bash via text-messaging — rarely drunk-texted him, but still —, using a long string of words like _Asshole, Moody, Arrogant Arse, Pretentious Golden Puppy Face_ (Of course, besides _Golden Puppy Face_ , she doesn’t mean any of it.), and Bash has to calm her down, as if he were some specialized individual in the ‘Marriage Counseling’ department. When in reality, he’s just like a big brother to Mary.

Conversely, Francis usually stayed silent about it, but would occasionally make passive-aggressive remarks to him, subtly hinting at _it_. Once, for their goddamn sake, Bash had to trick both of them into meeting each other at the same coffee shop, to talk things through — in Bash’s words, deal with their petty shit — and make up, and _thank god_ , it fucking worked.

During those dark times, Bash thinks he’s like a single father, trying to get his two kids to share the same goddamn Barbie doll. So there’s that. The bottom-line is: he doesn’t like it, not one bit, whenever his brother and Mary aren’t on good terms. Which is rarely. He doesn’t even know what they fight about, and honestly, he’s not sure if he wants to. He’s thankful and happy, though, that their trivial fights are pretty much the worst-case scenarios in their relationship. It’s pretty amazing, actually.

Occasionally, his brother would invite Bash to their apartment, and when Francis and Mary can’t seem to take their fidgety hands off each other, he would roll his eyes at them and mutter sardonically, _get a room_. Deep down, their small, yet intimate gestures sometimes stirred an unspeakable longing inside him, that he wants to find love — _true_ love — like the one Francis and Mary share. He doesn’t really believe in all that ‘soul mates’ crap, but their love almost convinces him otherwise. It’s some corny shit, but definitely not something to kid about. After all, some people spent years searching for their other half, only to find the idea of a soulmate had only been just a figment of their imagination, wistful thinking.

He may as well go ahead and admit it: he’s incredibly jealous of their relationship. It’s oddly funny, because Francis used to be the jealous one; Bash was commonly described by many (girls, especially) as ‘tall, dark, and handsome’, like some prince charming who walked out of a Disney movie. That being said, Francis always felt inadequate next to his brother, but now, _damn,_ look how the tables have turned.

Nevertheless, the two brothers love each other dearly. Bash has heard stories of brothers falling out due to them pinning for the same girl; he’s grateful that he and Francis aren’t anything like that. Whenever he comes over, the three of them – Bash, Francis, and Mary -- would just drink and talk until the sun retired for the day, sitting close to each other, heads together as if in conspiracy, voices thick with sleep. 

****

Francis raises an eyebrow at that. “Really? What did you two talk about?" 

“Just some small talk. And well, something about your Christmas gift for me.”

He huffs in response, palming his forehead. “That little bastard. I shouldn’t have—“

Squeezing his hand in hers, Mary interrupts, “He didn’t reveal anything. All he said was that he was ‘bitterly’ jealous, because you’ve never treated him this well as you do to me.” She even does the air quotes, and it prompts a laugh from him. “Hm, that is true,” he admits with a smirk.

“Bash needs some brotherly love, Francis. Go to the arcade together or something.” She rolls her eyes before adding, “Or whatever boys like to do.”

“Hm, maybe he’s having some trouble in the love department.” He muses, and her eyes widen with interest. “You think so?”

“Well, the girls he’d dated before were _questionable_ , to say the least. One of them got crazily drunk in a bar, and was really starving, so she hooked up with some dude who offered to buy her a McSpicy burger,” Francis says casually with a straight face, his expression stiff.

In response, Mary erupts in laughter, which attracts some surly glances around their table. “God, Mary,” he mutters, hiding a smile. She covers her mouth with one hand then, her shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Yikes,” she says once her laughter subsides, “How did Bash find out?”

Francis leans in, like he’s going to tell her a secret. “Turns out, the dude was one of his classmates back in college, and he posted a nude photo of her with the caption,” he laughs, before imitating a fake hipster accent, “‘y’all… i got laid for a mcspicy’ on twitter, and yeah, Bash saw it.” Mary jerks back in her chair, giggling. “Good lord.”

For a moment, they both sit in silence, waiting for their food.

“Tell me more about you as a child,” Mary says, resting her elbows on the table, and regards him with renewed curiosity.

As if on perfect timing, the waitress comes back with their food, and Mary asks for an extra helping of whipped cream, remembering that Francis actually went to the store once to buy two bottles of whipped cream, after he found out she likes it on her toast as well.

Francis tells her about snowball fights and horse-riding with Bash, about playing basketball until he hit college, and how exceptionally good he was in basketball, even though he was one of the shortest players on the team, and Bash always made fun of him about it. Mary listens attentively, neatly slicing her waffles into bite-sized pieces, as Francis tells her about spending Christmas with his family, and the one time when Bash taught him how to throw a real punch when he got to high school. Francis licks whipped cream off his finger and talks about how Bash brought girls home during his time in college, while he sat alone in his room reading books and doing homework.

His face is all lit up, Mary notices with a smile. When he pauses to take a bite of his waffles, she playfully dips her finger into the whipped cream and smudges a large spoonful of it on his chin.

“There you go. You look like Santa Claus’ half-bearded brother,” she remarks with a giggle; she never thought she’d resort to making Christmas jokes, but alas.

Francis groans in response, but he spreads the whipped cream across his chin, and makes a goofy face at her, lolling out his tongue. “You’re acting like a child,” she chides, even as she reaches for her phone to snap a picture of him.

He poses nicely for the camera, and she laughs heartily. “I’m gonna remember this for life,” she says, showing him the picture. He nods approvingly, and gives her a thumbs up.

“This would be an amazing picture to put in Christmas cards,” Francis mumbles while chewing his waffles.

“You bet. We should call up Hallmark and present it to them.” She jokes, a twinkle in her eyes as she stirs her milkshake idly with a straw. He grins wickedly at her. “Yeah, definitely.”

To their surprise, the waitress returns again with some candy canes. “It’s a special today; totally free of charge,” she tells them with a kind smile.

They thank her gratefully and spend the next fifteen minutes trying to balance the candy cane on their noses, pointing fingers at each other, laughing at how ridiculous the other looks, their unfinished waffles forgotten for the time being.

****

That night, back in their apartment, they sit on the couch and watch ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’. Passing the caramel popcorn back and forth, Mary lets out a yawn, and her eyelids flutter, battling the exhaustion. She can feel Francis’ arm draw her closer to him, and he presses a kiss to her hair. “You tired?” She gives him a slight nod, lifts up her arms, and stretches. A yawn escapes her lips again, and he chuckles softly. Pausing the movie, he says, “Come here.”

He manages to lift her up as she wraps her ankles around his middle, and her arms around his neck — like a clingy koala bear. Her head is pressed into the crook of his neck, and she mumbles tiredly, “Sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s nothing.”

He carries her to their bedroom effortlessly, and sets her down gently on the mattress.

Before he can retreat to the bathroom to wash up, Mary’s tugging at the collar of his shirt, pulling his body down to hers. Shifting her body to lie next to him, she curls one arm around his bicep, and Francis can tell she isn’t planning to release him for a long while.

She looks at him and calls, “Francis?”

“Hm, yeah?” He answers, stroking her mussed hair with his fingers. Gazing up at him, she asks diffidently, “Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?” He can hear the hopeful, yearning note in her voice.

“Yes,” he answers, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Even when I’m looking like Sally, the ugly rag doll in the movie?” Mary grimaces, as if she’s just pictured herself looking exactly like it.

He laughs and assents, “Yes, always. Mary, when are you going to realize that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and only you? Us growing old together, is all I could ever wish for.”

She blinks at him like she’s forgotten her own name. Francis covers her hand with his and moves it until it’s pressed against his racing heart. With that, she gives him a benign smile and teases, “Yeah, I can definitely picture you wearing those hideous Christmas sweaters that you currently own, even at 80 years old, with your blonde curls all—“

Her expression turns woeful, and she protests, “No, Francis, you can’t lose your curls; I’ll be beyond devastated.”

He gathers her into his embrace and laughs. “Are you saying that I’d look hideous without them?”

“Not at all. It’s just — your striking, blonde hair was the first thing I noticed when I first saw you in the bar. They’re like my first prominent memory of you,” she expresses ruefully, her eyes flickering to his.

She props herself up on an elbow, and looks at his callused hands.

“I have a little secret, anyway. Do you want to hear it?” she asks, dragging her fingers along his arm.

“Mm-hmm.” He nods, always wanting to listen her talk about anything.

“As crazy as it sounds, I just knew when I had caught your eye, that we would end up together.”

He stares at her, his mouth making a round ‘o’ of surprise. Leaning closer to him, she taps her index finger to her head and jests, “It’s like I have a sixth sense.” In response, he shakes his head. “Sixth sense? Is that what they’re calling bullshit these days?” She rolls her eyes then, trying not to laugh as she swats him away.

She looks at him again, her tone more serious this time. “I’m really glad I was right. You and me — _Us_.”

He smiles at that, reaching out to touch her earlobe. “Me too.”

The thing about Mary and Francis is, it’s all the little things.

Like, late-night conversations in bed.

Mary speaks up in the darkness after a long moment of silence. “Did you believe in Santa Claus?” Whether he believes in Santa Claus _now_ is definitely out of the question.

Francis shakes his head. “I never did.”

In response, she giggles and says, “Me too.”

“What’s your story? How you came to the conclusion he wasn’t real,” Francis asks her, pulling the thick blanket over them, and making sure Mary’s fully covered by it.

“I just thought the entire myth was rubbish,” Mary replies, shifting her head on the pillow to get just the perfect comfortable spot, “My mom and dad actually told me _he_ sneaked into our living room to drop candy canes in my stocking on the night of Christmas’ Eve,” she laughs, shaking her head.

He grins and nudges her with his arm. “And then?”

“Well, I was a petulant child then, so I threw my hands up in the air, and yelled that he wasn’t real. I was eight at the time,” she nods thoughtfully, recalling the memory.

“I can imagine. You and your strong opinions go a long way back,” he teases, and he can see the roll of her eyes in the dark.

As if proving his point, she continues animatedly, “Like, who on earth decided Santa Claus should be a fat, white man who lets children sit on his lap? I don’t get it, I really don’t.”

He laughs and pushes back the hair that’s falling in her face behind her ear. “Like you said, it’s a myth.”

He thinks for a while, about what he’s been dying to tell her for quite some time.

Somehow, it just feels right to go ahead and say it now.

Trailing his finger along her marble-like skin, he whispers to her, “I want us to have children; to be a family.”

He waits for her to gather her thoughts on it.

But Mary doesn’t reply, for she’s drifted off to sleep.

****

It’s almost a week till Christmas when Francis falls sick.

It starts with a slight cold; a runny nose, and within three days, it snowballs into a coughing fit.

“Mary, how long do I have to stay here like this?” Francis calls out from the bedroom, his body tucked under the thick, warm blanket.

She warns, “Don’t you dare move! I’m bringing breakfast to you.”

Mary’s standing in the kitchen, ladling out porridge from the pot into a small porcelain bowl. She takes a whiff of the porridge, and removes the stained yellow apron that she’s wearing. She makes her way into the bedroom then, the bowl of hot porridge sitting on a small tray in her hands. 

“Hey,” Francis greets her with a smile when she enters. 

The sight of her — hair bundled up messily, wearing blue polka-dot pajamas — is incredibly endearing, which probably doesn’t say much, since he finds most things about her to be endearing, anyway. 

“Hey, yourself. How are you feeling?” she asks, carefully climbing onto the mattress with the tray still in her hands.

“Slightly better. At least, I’m not coughing every minute now.” He looks at her in confusion, frowns slightly, and shifts over to make space for her.

“What are you doing?”

Mary rolls her eyes, settling down beside him on the mattress. “I’m taking care of _you_ , Francis.”

“I know, Mary, but it’s not necessary for you to feed me." 

“Well, I _insist,”_ she replies, and shoots him a look, one he knows all too well, that simply means: _don’t._

“Mary —“ He starts to protest, the words already on the tip of his tongue.

 _“_ I’m gonna feed you this bowl of porridge, and you’re gonna sit there and eat up, understand?” She says decisively, wagging a finger at him, and her tone doesn’t leave any room for debate.

In her face, Francis can see tenderness in every line, something kind and warm and gentle in her expression. He reaches out to cup her face with both hands, and kisses her, chaste and sweet.

Pulling away, he smirks at her. “I love it when you take charge.”

She flushes then, the subtle meaning of the statement resounding. It’s only because he’s sick that she doesn’t immediately toss a pillow at him. Francis watches, captivated, as she scoops some porridge with a spoon, lifts it to her mouth, and blows over it repeatedly. Holding the bowl just below the spoon, she makes a sound of satisfaction when Francis complies, eating a mouthful of porridge from the spoon she’s holding up. 

Mary looks at him closely, and prattles on, “How is it? Oh god, I hope I didn’t sprinkle too much pepper in it, or else you’ll—“ He places a finger to her lips, and she swallows. 

“Mary, it’s delicious. The best porridge I’ve ever had,” he says, smiling at her, and a warm feeling unfolds in her chest. 

“Yay, that’s good!” she rejoices, bobbling her head up and down in satisfaction. He lets out a laugh, and she continues to feed him. Francis finishes the bowl of porridge quicker than she thought.

She returns to the kitchen, and settles the tray on the counter, before grabbing a paper napkin and heading back to the bedroom. This time, she scoots closer to Francis on the bed, dabbing his mouth with the paper napkin.

He admits, “Actually, I’m really enjoying this.” 

He feels his face light up, and sees a similar light in her face, under her blush. “Really?”

He nods, stroking her cheek. “Yeah, you taking care of me; it’s nice.” With that, she straightens her shoulders, and says firmly, “Just so you know, this is how it’s gonna be from now on, whenever you fall sick. You’ll have to get used to my incessant nagging, and excessive pettiness.” 

“I can handle it. I like watching you make a fuss over me.” He grins at her.

“Oh, you.” She rolls her eyes at him. Feeling the thickness of the blanket with one hand, she decides it’s not enough to keep him warm.

“I’ll go and get another blanket for you,” she tells him, worry tracing over her brow. 

Francis makes a moue of displeasure. “No, don’t go. Stay with me.”

Honestly, she’s about _this_ \-- an infinitesimal distance -- close to tossing a pillow at him.

She counters, “But your hands are a bit cold.” He shakes his head, refusing, “It’s fine, really.” She frowns at him, and strokes his hair.

“I don’t want you to catch a fever, Francis.”

“I won’t. I’m strong, Mary, and all I really need is you to lie in bed with me.”

Sensing her diminishing insistence, he tugs at the sleeve of her polka-dot pajamas, his grin widening. She relents, unable to deny him of such intimacy, and curls herself around him under the blanket.

Francis reaches out and touches her chin, tipping it up slightly to kiss her. Her mouth opens up to him, and his tongue slides against hers. Pulling back, she lets out a soft, contented sigh, and tells him brazenly, “If you weren’t sick, I would totally jump on your bones right now.”

His gaze darkens, and he murmurs against the skin at the curve of her neck, “Mm, I appreciate the sentiment.”

She giggles, biting her lip. “But now’s not the time; it’s imperative that you recover first.”

“Oh, is this how married life with you will be like?” He huffs, crossing his arms like a child who’s just been denied of candy.

Mary leans in and presses a feather-light kiss to his neck. It’s enough to make him _want_ her, and Francis can only feel blood rushing in his veins.

“ _Married_ life?” she asks him, eyes locked with his.

Truthfully, the idea of marriage scares her a little. To Mary, it’s a big deal, it’s a leap of faith. Devoting yourself completely to one person isn’t difficult at all; otherwise, why marry this person then? No, it isn’t that. It’s the insecurity; the occasional fear that one day, things may take a turn for the worst, and form one giant, convoluted mess, such that the marriage becomes irreparable, and maybe, your other half wakes up the next day and decides to end everything for good. All those years of falling in love, laying the foundation of a great, healthy relationship – gone. Just gone, like cutting off branches that had grown together. 

She shakes off the thought, and sees Francis looking at her, his expression indiscernible.

He just nods his head and laughs. “Yeah.”

The skepticism must show on her face, because he’s reaching for her and clarifying quickly, “It just came out of my mouth that moment; nothing else." 

“Oh.” She can’t tell if it’s disappointment she hears in her own voice.

A pause.

Francis clears his throat. “So, I should probably go and rest now.”

“Yes, go rest.” Mary slides off the mattress, making sure he’s fully covered to the chest by the blanket.

He nods at her, adjusting his head on the pillow. Smiling at him, Mary strokes his curls once more, and drops a kiss to his forehead before leaving the room, a million questions swimming in her head.

****

It’s Christmas’ Eve, and they’re taking a stroll in the park by their apartment, their hands linked with each other’s. It’s only seven in the morning, the sky nearly as white as snow, rays of sunlight casting amorphous shadows over their bodies. 

They have a thing for taking strolls in nice and quiet places, away from the crowds, at peace with each other’s company. Mary is dressed in a crimson red coat, a white sweater layered underneath, black skinny jeans, black heels, dark grey gloves, and a black scarf around her neck. Francis is pretty much wearing the same ensemble as the other day – white button-up, jeans, black coat, matching gloves with Mary (they were on sale for two!), and his timberland boots.

Mary secretly likes how their choice of clothing complements each other’s sometimes, like it’s obvious they’re an item. Or something.

He nudges her playfully on the shoulder. “You look like a human burrito.”

“Ha, very funny.” She shoots dagger eyes at him, but there’s no venom in it.

With that, he corrects promptly, “A cute one.”

She grins at him, nodding approvingly. He takes one look at their joined hands, and pats it with his other hand. 

“So, what are we doing for Christmas tomorrow?” 

Almost abruptly, Francis stops in his tracks, and turns to face her, his hands on her shoulders.

“Mary.” He inhales sharply, and it takes a moment for him to string a sentence.

“My mother wants to meet us for dinner tonight.”

She exclaims, “Oh, that’s great! I’m finally going to be able to meet her.”

“I’m really glad you’re thrilled about this, Mary, but my mother isn’t exactly warm and amiable to people." 

Mary throws him a questioning look. “What do you mean?” 

He sighs. “Well, to start, she’s one picky woman. Which means to say, she’ll cast her doubts over you, badger us as to why we’re dating. I’m just worried she’ll make you feel uncomfortable, and step out of line.” 

“Oh.” Mary meeps, surprised. Francis hasn’t told her much about his mother, Catherine, ever since they started dating. Mary surmises he has his own reasons, and she leaves it at that. So she doesn’t know why his mother’s only choosing to meet her now, rather than earlier. Again, it’s none of her business, though she has a hunch that Catherine isn’t fond of her, for some reason she’s unaware of. Maybe she’ll find out tonight. 

Francis is saying, “I know this is late-notice, and I should’ve told you yesterday. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I’m not mad.” She gives him a small smile, and reaches to stroke his chest reassuringly.

“To be honest, I’m a little nervous. What if I mess up during our meeting, or blurt out something weird?” Mary confesses, clasping her hands together.

“You’ll do fine; I’ll be sitting alongside you. And I don’t see how _anyone_ can dislike you, Mary, not even my mother. You’re beautiful and clever and unpredictable and —" 

She tiptoes to interrupt him with a kiss on the bridge of his nose, her warm gloves cupping his neck. “Yes, point taken.” She grins at him as they pull back.

They resume walking, his arm wrapped around her middle, over her coat. 

“How is she like? Your mother,” she inquires, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Francis huffs out a sigh, and scratches the side of his face. “All judgments aside, she’s my mother. And I love her dearly.” Mary can tell he misses his mother, by the distant look in his eyes, and him fidgeting with his gloves. 

It takes a bit of an effort to sling her arm around his shoulder, given he’s almost a head taller than her, even when she’s wearing three-inch heels. 

“She must be an amazing woman, seeing that she’s given birth to such a handsome, kind-hearted, and charming man.” 

“Ah. Nice try, but my choice of adjectives for you is better.” He jokes and kisses her, chaste because he’s smiling. 

When they pull back, she lets out an exasperated sigh, and levels him with a steady look. “You know, we’re never gonna reach the end of our stroll if we keep stopping to go all lovey-dovey on each other.” 

“But I thought you liked us being lovey-dovey.” Francis frowns then, and she swears she can hear the pout in his voice. 

“We’re in public. People are looking at us,” she hisses, casting a furtive glance at their surroundings. 

Without a word, Francis pokes her in the ribs. She makes an inarticulate sound, and smacks his fingers disbelievingly. 

“To be fair, you kissed me first.” 

She scrunches up her face in mild annoyance. “How was I —“ she starts, her voice squeaky and tentative, “How was I supposed to just _look_ you in the eye with you saying things like that?” 

“Admit it, you’re taking every opportunity you can get to kiss me.” 

“Sheesh, then stop giving me the opportunity.” She slaps a rebuttal over his remark, and bumps her hips into his lower middle.

Height difference at its finest, really. 

His eyes glint with mischief, and he more than gladly returns the favor, shoving her aside by the shoulder lightly. In response, she shoves her entire body against him — he doesn’t even budge. “Are you _kidding_ me?” 

She, however, stumbles slightly, the movement akin to a waddling penguin, and Francis just has to take her in his arms then. “Hey!” She wrestles as he lifts her up by the waist almost easily, and spins her around. 

They laugh, and Mary can only see a blur of white and blonde. 

When he sets her down and releases her, Mary crosses her arms, making a valiant effort to look intimidating in her ‘human burrito’ ensemble. Francis only tilts his head at her, pursing his lips with an exaggerated look of disapproval. 

“Just— just stop, you still look as cute as a button.” 

“Damn it.” She pouts, throwing a light punch to his shoulder. He chuckles, and gathers her back in his arms. “Come on, let’s go for breakfast. I know a good place nearby.” 

**** 

“Is she here already?” 

That night, they’re sitting in a fancy Italian place in the neighborhood, waiting for Catherine, Francis’ mother, to arrive. Glancing at his watch, Francis turns back in his chair and searches the entrance for his mother, but there’s no sight of her yet. He shakes his head; it’s almost seven, the time they’re supposed to meet. 

“Oh god, I feel so jittery.” 

He can’t help but smile at Mary’s genuine concern, wanting to give his mother a good impression of herself. She’s wearing a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder dress leaving her skin exposed, and Francis keeps catching himself staring at her. “It’s just the nerves, babe,” he reassures her and reaches out to take her hand, giving it a squeeze. “I hope so,” she returns with a half-smile. 

“Darling!” 

Mary whips around, her eyes landing on a pleasantly striking lady – blonde hair tied neatly into a lovely bun, wearing a shimmery, sleeveless silver dress that falls to her knees, a matching sparkly clutch on one hand, a white coat over her arm, and — _are those new season Jimmy Choos?_  

Mary reads Vogue, so she knows. 

She and Francis rise to greet her, and he plants a kiss on her cheek. “Mother, you look dazzling.” 

“You’re bloody right.” 

She smiles, gesturing to Mary. “Is this who I think it is?” 

“Yes. This is Mary, my girlfriend.” He tells Catherine, and Mary can hear a tone of pride in his voice. She outstretches her hand and greets Catherine politely, “Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Medici.” 

Catherine appraises her for a second. Looks at Mary up and down, then up and down again. 

She nods with a thin smile after, and gives Mary a firm handshake. Unbeknownst to Francis and his mother, Mary does a brief celebratory dance in her head when she knows she pronounced Catherine’s surname right. 

Francis pulls the chair out for his mother, and Catherine strokes his cheek before settling down on her seat, and slinging her coat over the chair. “Thank you, dear.” 

Straightening her shoulders to maintain a good posture, Mary offers Catherine a benign smile as she says, “Francis and I have already ordered some baked ziti for you; he says it’s your favorite.” 

“Indeed, it is,” she replies curtly, taking a sip of iced water that the waiter left on the table. There’s a frown tugging at the corner of her lips, and Catherine beckons the waiter over. He appears at their table almost immediately, and she requests, “I’d like a slice of lemon in it, please.” 

Mary can feel her hands fidgeting in her lap, her fingers curling and uncurling. Francis notices and places a hand over hers, the gesture relaxing her troubling nerves. 

“So, Mother, how are things?” Francis initiates the conversation naturally, resting his elbows on the table.

Catherine takes her time to unfold a napkin and place it on her lap primly, before she looks up to answer, “Oh, good. All the same, really -- just work and more work. Throw in a little sex here and there.” 

Mary lowers her gaze to her empty plate, and clears her throat lightly. She can tell Francis is at a loss for words at the moment, so she decides to speak up. “Francis has told me a lot about you,” she starts, willing her voice not to shake, “and the many accomplishments you’ve earned at what you do.” 

The waiter comes back with their food and a glass of lemon water, and Catherine takes a huge sip of her water, before casting a look at Mary. 

“What else has he told you about me?” 

Mary shrugs, forcing a laugh. “Well, other than that there’s really not much.” 

Francis chimes in, “You should come and visit us more often, mother, then we’d have more stories to share.” 

Like she didn’t hear Francis, Catherine only lifts a crooked index finger at Mary, the gesture a little intimidating. “Alright then. Tell me more about yourself, _sweetheart_.” 

With that, Francis frowns at his mother and interjects, “Mother, her name is Mary.” 

“Well, won’t you look at her; She’s such a sweetheart.” 

Mary blushes slightly at that, smoothing the napkin over her lap nervously. “I’m twenty-three this year, currently working as a pre-school teacher.” 

Catherine raises an eyebrow at her, wedges her fork into her baked ziti, and remarks, “So, you are good with children.” 

“Well, I guess you could—“ 

Waving a hand at Mary dismissively, she interrupts, “No, no, no, that wasn’t a question.”

Mary opens her mouth to say something, but thinks better of it, and tears apart the focaccia she ordered in silence. Francis scrutinizes her face for any sign of anger or annoyance, but there’s none. Instead, what he thinks he sees is only embarrassment. 

Clearing his throat, Francis takes a bite of his baked ziti, and much to Catherine’s chagrin, makes a soft, lewd sound of pleasure. Even Mary, who’s not unfamiliar to the sound, stares at her boyfriend. 

“Mm, Mother, are you tasting this? It _literally_ melts in your mouth.”

The expression on Catherine’s face sends Mary erupting into loud giggles, and she half-attempts to cover her mouth. Francis laughs heartily as he watches Mary struggle internally to subdue her giggles, and Catherine only looks at the both of them amusedly. She surprises him when Francis notices his mother’s lips curl upward slightly, almost forming a genuine smile. 

“I’m so sorry,” Mary apologizes sincerely, one hand over her mouth, a wide grin still lingering on her face. Catherine sets down her fork on the table, and leans back in her seat. 

A long beat passes, and Mary starts to think she’s seething, her face pent-up, the air seeming to grow thicker with tension. 

“You do make my son happy,” Catherine says suddenly, and this time, it sounds more like a statement than a question.

There’s a flash of surprise across Mary’s face; she smiles at Francis and reaches to entwine her hand with his on the table. 

“And he makes me happy, too.”

Catherine blinks as she sees something so real and true reflected in Mary’s eyes — her love for Francis. 

Raising her glass, Catherine tells them with a subtle head nod, “Cheers to both of you.” 

Francis throws a fleeting look of disbelief at Mary, and she grins at him. They both raise their glasses, clinking them together with Catherine’s.

With Mary’s anxiety ebbing away, she regales Catherine with the story about how she and Francis went skiing recently, and how he shamelessly pretended not to know how to ski, just to get Mary to teach him because he finds her adorable. Catherine listens with actual interest as she takes more bites of her baked ziti, reaching for her water once in a while to wash down the spiciness of it. Mary tells Catherine about the first time they met in the bar, and what she first noticed about Francis. 

When Mary mentions his golden curls, Catherine shoots a look at Francis, and only tells him with a raised brow, “You’ll have me to thank for that.” 

With that, Mary lets out a bubble of giggle, and goes on to ramble about how much she adores her boyfriend’s curls, in between stolen bites of _his_ baked ziti. 

“If you wanted ziti, you should have just ordered it,” he chides, even as he pushes his plate toward her. “Hey, I like focaccia,” she protests, already spearing a mouthful of his baked ziti with her fork, smiling. 

Catherine orders a glass of red wine, and crosses her arms on the table. 

“So, am I going to hear any news about a baby anytime soon?”

They both freeze. She might as well have said, so, _have you guys fucked without using a condom?_  

“ _God_ , Mother.” Francis deadpans, palming his forehead. 

“Well, is there?” Catherine demands, making a vague gesture with her hand. Mary feels her face flush and stammers, “W—We haven’t actually—I mean, we did, but--” 

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Catherine takes her glass of red wine from the waiter, and sighs. After a long sip, nobody says anything, so she prompts them further. “Well, are there any plans for marriage?” 

Scratching the side of his neck, Francis admits sheepishly, “We haven’t really discussed it yet.” 

Catherine inhales deeply at that and takes another long sip of her red wine. Putting down the glass, she shakes her head at Francis, then at Mary, and tuts. “This is ludicrous; what are you waiting for? Or do I have to come down again on your behalf, and propose to Mary myself?” 

Mary tries not to laugh at her sudden outburst of impatience, and stays silent, anticipating Francis’ reply. Since that night in bed, Francis has made no mention of the word ‘marriage’, or anything concerning marriage. And she doesn’t know what to make of this, or if there’s anything to analyze. 

“We’ll discuss our own affairs in private, Mother. There’s no need for you to intervene in any way,” Francis replies calmly, tearing a piece of Mary’s focaccia and stuffing it into his mouth. 

“I expect an invitation, darling.” 

“Of course, when the time comes,” Francis drones on as he chews the bread, rolling his eyes at his mother. Mary thinks rolling her eyes at Catherine would warrant her a thousand deaths, though she and Catherine may seem to be on _friendly_ terms with each other now. That’s really _something,_ right? 

Dabbing his mouth with a napkin, Francis tells them, “I have to go to the washroom.” He looks over at Mary, as if to ask, _Will you be alright without me for a while; all alone with my mother, who’s the walking personification of a headache?_

Mary smiles and nods, stroking his shoulder briefly before he excuses himself and walks over to the washroom. 

“Pass me the plate of focaccia, please.” 

Mary passes the plate with the bread to her and watches in silence, chewing on her lip, as Catherine sinks her (straight, perfect) teeth into the focaccia. Taking the last bite of Francis’ baked ziti, Mary runs through some quality topics of conversation in her head, unsure of what to talk about with Catherine, besides the one single thing that has made their worlds collide -- Francis. 

To Mary’s relief, Catherine beats her to it. 

“I’m sure you know that I only want the best for my son.” 

With that, Mary sits up straight and clasps her hands on the table. “Yes, definitely.” She affirms, giving Catherine a slight nod. “Whatever you must think of me,” Catherine starts, and Mary braces herself for a hard blow. 

Catherine’s expression softens. “I’d like you to know that you and Francis have my full support.” 

Mary blinks and chooses her words carefully before continuing.

“Not at all, I do think highly of you, Mrs. Medici. And may I say, those Jimmy Choos are absolutely stunning.” 

“I’m glad someone finally noticed. In fact, they’re—“ 

“New season,” Mary finishes, smiling.

Catherine pauses, her face inscrutable, and nods at Mary. Moving her hands back to her lap, Mary expresses sincerely, “Your opinion means a lot to me, so thank you.” 

She pauses thoughtfully, and continues, “I can see it in your eyes — how much you love him.” 

“So can I. That makes the two of us, then.” 

She looks up, and notices Catherine offering her a trace of a smile — a _smile_ , nevertheless — and Mary has to refrain herself from pumping her fist in the air. 

Instead, Mary just smiles back, regarding her with appreciation. 

She’s slightly stunned when she feels a hand on her back, before realizing it’s Francis. 

“So, what did I miss?” Francis prompts, looking expectantly at the two most important women in his life. 

There’s no argument, there. 

Catherine gestures to his almost-gone baked ziti with her glass of wine, and replies amusedly, “The last bite of your baked ziti.” 

Mary laughs as Francis stares at his empty plate almost sadly, rolling his eyes at Mary. She doesn’t notice, not when she watches as Catherine sips on her wine, wondering how someone can look so regal and in charge.

The three of them talk, pausing in between to take a sip of their drink, and they almost choke on their food in laughter — for Mary and Francis, that is. Francis is still wrapping his head around the fact that his mother and girlfriend are actually interacting, sharing stories about him in particular and exchanging smiles.

It’s nearly half-past nine when they finally step out of the restaurant, the skies already pitch-black. 

Catherine is stunned when Mary pulls her in for a hug. When Mary breaks her embrace, she tells Catherine warmly, “It’s really great seeing you, Mrs. Medici. I hope you’d visit us again soon.” 

Catherine reaches out and shakes her hand, this time more welcoming and pleasant. 

“Please, call me Catherine.” 

Mary nods. “Catherine.” 

It feels like a seal of approval. 

“Take care, mother.” Francis gives Catherine a long hug, before she presses one last kiss to his cheek. They bid goodbye to her as she hails a cab. Catherine waves them goodbye again when she’s in the backseat of the cab, before taking out her lipstick to apply it. 

Mary swears she can feel Francis smiling in her hair, and she turns around to face him. 

“So, how did I fare tonight?” 

“You did fantastic, Mary.” Francis says simply, still smiling, and pulls her closer to him, “I can tell my mother had a great time.” 

She concurs with a coy smile, “Yeah, she did.” 

“What did she say to you when I was gone?” 

“She said that we have her full support; I assumed she was referring to our relationship,” Mary replies, a grin spreading across her face. 

“Hmm, she approves of us,” he says with a hint of evasiveness, but Mary doesn’t catch it. 

Her eyes light up, and she tugs at his sleeve excitedly. “Isn’t that great? I was so sure she didn’t like me at the start. Her death stare is really out of this world, _crazy scary_.” 

Mary pulls a face, and Francis chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of her nose. 

“I told you, you had nothing to worry about.” 

They hold hands as they walk back to their apartment. 

“How can I make up for all the baked ziti I stole from you?” 

“How about…” Francis trails off, scratching his head, then says casually, “Late night Christmas’ Eve sex?” 

She grins at him. “Deal.” 

**** 

“Jesus, it’s fucking freezing.” Mary groans, letting out a ‘brr’ sound.

It’s Christmas morning, and they’re walking along the streets, having just left their apartment to grab some coffee. 

Francis can almost feel the Christmas spirit in the air: gaudy and elaborate decorations strewn nicely across sky-high lamp posts, the melodious sound of children singing Christmas carols nearby, the scuffing of feet against the hard concrete ground, and the hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping. 

Everyone has that one friend, or family member, who goes all the fuck in about Christmas, which starts on November first and doesn’t end until January first of the following year. 

Francis _is_ that person. To say he loves Christmas would be a massive understatement; he practically _lives_ for Christmas. Francis likes (ugly) Christmas sweaters and Christmas cookies and Christmas trees and Christmas lights and Christmas music and hot chocolate and snow, but he’s not necessarily walking around covered in tinsel, waving jingle bells around in the air. 

He just really enjoys Christmas, is all. In fact, he thinks this Christmas is shaping up to be the best one yet, because of – okay, as cheesy as it is -- Mary. Furthermore, he has something up his sleeve for her later tonight.

He shakes his head at her, smiling. “I told you to wear a heavy jacket.” 

She studies him for a moment, before raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Look who’s the human burrito _this time_.” 

He rolls his eyes, stopping in his tracks. “Come here,” he says in a gentle voice. 

Following suit, she stops and turns to face him. Mary lets out a giggle as she wraps his scarf around his neck properly, and tucks some of his curls inside his red beanie, adjusting it on his head firmly. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he clarifies, laughing at her child-like demeanor. She scrunches her nose at him in confusion, and he takes her hands in his, wrapping them around his middle, under his warm and heavy jacket. 

She grins at him, her chin resting on his chest. “You know, I was planning to go back and grab another jacket, but it seems you’ve thought of something better.” 

“I want to keep you warm.” He answers, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. She feels her cheeks flare at his affectionate nature. 

“How are we supposed to walk like this?” she questions amusedly, her cheeks rosy and her lips flushed by the chilly air. 

He shrugs like it’s no problem and throws a mischievous wink at her. “Just keep your arms around me.” 

She nods, giggling. They resume walking, their bodies huddled close together, and his hand around her waist, steadying her. The thing is, they’re not actually walking, but rather, _waddling_. In less than a minute, she’s nearly tripped over his feet a couple of times. 

They’re laughing now, and Mary yelps, “Francis! I’m going to fall this time.” He looks down at her, and notices how her expression is a mix of embarrassment and panic. Shaking his head firmly, he replies with a laugh, “No you won’t. I’m never going to let you go.” 

“Okay.” Her answer is muffled, her face pressed into the warmth of his chest. 

They continue waddling, their steps unsteady and awkward, and their laughter only becomes louder. The sight of them garners some judging looks from people who pass them; Mary burrows her face deeper into Francis’ chest, hiding her utter embarrassment. 

Peering at him, she drawls, “This is _so_ embarrassing. We both look like idiots.”

“Doesn’t matter; you’re definitely warm now.” He smirks at her, rubbing circles on her rosy cheek gently. 

She blushes then, forcing herself to gaze into his eyes. The coffee stand along the streets that they usually frequent comes into view, and she releases him. She smiles to herself when she sees a flash of disappointment and reluctance in his eyes. 

“Thank you for keeping me warm.” 

Before he can respond, she reaches out to grab the edges of his scarf, and pulls him in for a kiss. His lips are deliciously warm on hers, and she savors the taste of it. Stupidly, Mary thinks it’s probably the smoothest thing she’s ever done to a guy, harnessing such power over him in her fingertips. Then again, Francis isn’t _just_ a guy. 

After a few moments, she pulls away and grins at him, her palms on his chest. “You should really do that more often,” comes his husky reply, and she laughs. 

After grabbing their coffee, they make their way to the same park they visited just yesterday. Surprisingly, the playground’s not as packed with children as it usually is, and Francis guesses it’s because many of them are at home, opening their Christmas presents already because they simply can’t wait any longer. 

He suddenly hears a ping and Mary looks up to see Francis reaching for his phone in the left pocket of his jacket. His eyes scan over his phone, a smile creeping on his face. He tells her, “It’s Bash; he just sent me a Christmas message. Oh, and he asked if I wanna go get coffee with him later.” 

In response, she holds up her coffee to him as a reminder, as if to say, _That’s enough coffee to last till the evening._

 _Just had coffee with Mary. How about drinks?_ He texts Bash, well aware that his brother’s always down for some beer. 

Another ping. Bash replies quickly – a character trait which Francis greatly admires, especially in the light of Mary not replying his texts for hours when she’s not with him. She contests it’s because she doesn’t have the “low-life” habit of checking her phone every fucking minute, when really, Francis knows she’s just horrible at texting back. Weirdly, he loves her even more for it. 

He should just outright admit it: he has a _huge_ weakness for her. 

Bash replies, _Fine. Merry Christmas bro_

Bash doesn’t use emojis at all, and Francis thinks it’s because he doesn’t have feelings, or he feels some unexplainable urge to put up a big-brotherly façade to him. Either way, in Francis’ eyes, he’s also equally horrible at texting. 

“I’m going for drinks with Bash at the bar later.” 

“Just don’t get drunk, babe,” she replies, raising her brows at him. 

She doesn’t wait for him to respond because she’s already finished her coffee and tossed it in the bin. Francis watches her as she sprints to the playground that’s blanketed with snow, her excitement palpable as she squeals in delight. 

Her gaze is fixed on him intently when she reaches down and forms a snowball in her gloved hands. 

“No, no, no—“ he starts, rushing to gulp down the last of his coffee. He nearly spits out his coffee in laughter when he realizes her snowball didn’t even reach the balls of his feet; instead it landed some distance away from him – completely out of target. He throws his coffee into the bin and regards her with amusement. 

Stomping her feet in the snow-covered ground, she huffs and puts her arms on her hips. He takes his chance and runs over to the playground, skillfully forming his own snowball with ease. He’s had his fair share of snowball fights with Bash in the past, and for once, he’s miles better at it than his older brother; he always manages to dodge Bash’s snowballs easily, as he’s smaller than him, and his body more agile. 

Francis takes his time to form a firm and large snowball, before looking up to find Mary hiding behind the curve of the slide, her face obscured by it. 

He gets into position, bending down slightly to catch a glimpse of her face. She’s giggling, and he can see she already has a new snowball, ready to attack.

Instead, he notices Mary approaching a little boy who’s sitting on the end of the slide and playing with snow gathered on his lap. She offers the boy a warm and friendly smile, hand outstretched. “Hello. What’s your name?” The boy flushes and hesitates a little before answering, “James.”

Patting the little boy’s head with a smile, she kneels down before him and hands him her snowball, placing it carefully on his palm. James stares at her in confusion as she grins at him. Then, she points a finger to Francis and whispers something to him, gesturing to the snowball. 

Something shifts in James’ face. An understanding. 

Before Francis could fully understand what she’d said, he’s hit right smack in the face by a snowball. 

Mary’s laughter rings in the air as she high-fives James in triumph. Likewise, James is also laughing, bending over with his hands over his stomach. She doesn’t waste any time -- he has to give her credit for that – and she’s already making another snowball and tossing it lightly to James.

Francis aims his snowball at Mary, and throws it with all his might – only to see she’s effortlessly deflected it with an elbow over her face, the snowball crumbling at once. Damn, he’s met his match. 

He’s outnumbered; Mary and James are hurling snowballs at him relentlessly, like unstoppable cannons at work. At first, he’s doing a decent job multitasking: attacking and defending himself. His snowball even hits Mary’s cheek at one point, and he cheers for himself. Later, however, there’s a large, rapid blur of white crossing his eyes, and he’s horrified when he has to resort to crouching down in the snow, left to fend for himself. 

Despite himself, snowballs spattering all over his head and dampening his hair and all, his laughter comes in waves -- rising and falling seamlessly -- and the wide grin on Mary’s face and James’ laughter warm his heart. 

Soon, their attacks cease and he ventures to rise to his feet slowly. Before he can react, Mary appears out of nowhere and tackles him to the ground. The thickness of the snow cushions his landing, and he doesn’t wince. Shaking some snow off his face, he looks up to see Mary on his lap, a blush tinting her cheeks. 

“Do you surrender?” she asks cheekily, an expectant look on her face. 

His attention is suddenly drawn to James, who’s standing over him with a snowball in his tiny hand. “Surrender now! Or you will face our wrath,” he commands softly, and stares at Francis, almost offended that he hasn’t surrendered instantly. 

Francis lets out a laugh, his gaze switching between Mary and James. Sitting up, he reaches out to pat the mussed, brown curls on James’ head. In response, James offers him a shy smile, and playfully tosses the snowball at Francis’ chest. At that, Mary gushes, “Isn’t he just a little devil?” She looks at James adoringly as she reaches out to dust the snow off his jacket. 

“James!” A foreign, womanly voice calls out. 

They all turn to see a finely-dressed woman in her mid-thirties, standing near the park benches, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look guarding her face. She’s not pleased, to say the least. 

James gulps, dreading the punishment that awaits him for disobeying his mother and running off to play in the snow. Looking at Mary and Francis, he explains frantically, “I have to go now; my mother’s waiting for me.” 

They both return him a warm smile. “You did a great job, James. You’re really good with your throws, and you’re very kind for helping this lady out, though she clearly has evil intentions,” Francis tells him and shoots a look at Mary, which prompts her to nudge his bicep and giggle. 

Francis lifts his fist, gesturing to James for a bro-fist. James beams at him, and bumps his fist against Francis’. 

“ _James!”_

With that, he says goodbye to them and excuses himself politely, walking hurriedly to his mother, who casts a nasty look at them. Avoiding her gaze, they watch as James waves one final goodbye to them and heads to the streets, holding his mother’s hand. 

Francis rests his head back down in the snow, with Mary lying next to him. “That was definitely cheating,” he accuses without malice, shifting to rest on his side so that he can look at her. 

She laughs in response, staring at the sky. “Yeah, but it was so much fun.” 

She crawls away from him, and lay on the snow. Outstretching her arms and legs, she proceeds to make a snow angel, dragging her limbs inwards and outwards along the bed of snow. He mirrors her actions, making his own snow angel, and feels a new sense of peace wash over him. 

Mary closes her eyes then, squirming slightly as the chilly air tickles her neck; Francis told her to wear a scarf as well, but she stubbornly refused. Her eyes blink open at once when he presses kisses to her neck, acutely aware of his body weight – and heat – over hers. 

She pushes her hands against his chest and raises an eyebrow at him. “Really, Francis? Out here in the open, surrounded by snow?”

He chuckles at her unimpressed expression, and murmurs in her hair, “I’m glad you didn’t wear a scarf.” 

With that, she swats him away and gets up to her feet. Dusting snow off her lap, she tells him flatly, “Later.” He frowns at that, and she laughs as she pulls him up by the hand.

After smoothing over his unruly curls, she pats him on the shoulders and teases, “I promise.” Without a word, he sneaks a kiss from her cheek and grins at her, her cheeks now stained with a flush. 

They take a long look at their snow angels lying side-by-side, before Mary grabs his hand and leads him away to the streets. 

“When is ‘later’ going to be, exactly?” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

****

He meets with Bash at a bar downtown, later that afternoon. 

Bash’s already seated at the bar, his leather jacket slung over the chair behind him, nursing a sweating bottle of beer. Francis notices him checking his phone idly upon entering, and he waves at Bash when he glances up almost immediately. 

“Hey, Francis.” Bash envelopes him in a firm hug, patting his back. 

“Brother,” he returns with a smile, and ruffles Bash’s brown hair, the gesture endearing. 

According to Francis, that is. 

“ _Jesus_ , you’ve got to stop doing that,” Bash mutters with a roll of his eyes as Francis slides into the seat beside him. Bash signals the bartender and orders the drink he remembers his brother preferring: bourbon, neat, with a twist of lemon. 

“So, what’s up?” 

Bash groans and shakes his head. Avoiding his brother’s eyes, he looks down and mumbles into his beer, “It’s Christmas man, how bad can things be?” This is a constant state that Bash’s always been in: _denial_. 

Francis recognizes the look on Bash’s face instantly, and places his hand on his brother’s shoulder reassuringly. “Come on, you know you can tell me.”

Bash looks at him for a long moment, as if weighing something. Putting down his beer, he sighs and crosses his arms on the bar. “Girl trouble.” 

To his dismay, Francis’ eyes lights up, and he slaps Bash on the back, as if to congratulate him for getting a girl. “I totally called it.”

Bash makes a point to ignore him blatantly, and continues, “It’s this girl, Kenna. We just hooked up over the weekend, and now she’s not returning my calls. She’s ignoring me, and I don’t know what to do, man. I don’t wanna get all forceful and clingy on her, but I swear I felt something between us.” 

This is strange; Bash has never been the one to invest emotionally in a girl, much less in an actual relationship. He’s hooked up with plenty of girls before, but it was always a one-night casual affair and nothing beyond that. To this day, Francis still doesn’t understand how the entire one-night stand concept works; how can two people just fuck one night and wake up the next morning total strangers and indifferent? It’s just mind-boggling to him. 

On the other hand, Francis has hooked up with girls – two including Mary, so it’s plural, mind you – before, but that’s it. He was in a relationship with the first girl two years ago, not immediately, but gradually. It just happened, one reason or another. It didn’t last, so whatever. During the time gap between that and Mary, Francis very well remembers his sex life and romantic endeavors were pretty much non-existent, thank you very much. 

He also remembers his very first encounter with Mary at the bar that night, how he gathered all his courage to approach her alone. Truly, she was a work of art: long slender legs, hazel eyes that dazzled, marble-like skin, the curves of her body defined by the tight, black body-con dress she was wearing, her beautiful face framed by the dark of her hair. 

“Hello. May I buy you a drink?” he asked her, trying to sound casual, though the slight tremble of his voice betrayed him. She looked up at him, and he felt his mouth go dry. She gave him a slight nod, her eyes surveying him. 

“Francis.” He held out his hand and smiled. 

She shook it, her touch slight, yet electrifying. “Mary,” she replied, returning his smile. 

To his surprise, she was a natural at making conversation, sharing with him random facts about herself, though not at all personal, understandably. He enjoyed her company; he liked how she talked animatedly with jazzed hands gesturing over the air, her facial expressions amusing and hilarious at times. In return, he entertained her with his own stories and jokes, and watched how she threw her head back laughing like a little kid, her long, wavy hair brushing past her bare shoulders. 

Soon, _too_ _soon_ , his friends called him over to leave, and he hesitated. There was something about her – Mary – that he couldn’t just leave of his own accord right there and then; she was gazing at him the whole time during his interaction with his friends, and he caught her staring with those dark, luminous eyes of hers.

And, so it went: he was _gone_ in that instant. 

He stayed with her till the end of the night, their conversation not once faltering, glasses emptying, voices quieting, knees touching. She took him home after, and they laid on her bed, learning the lines of each other’s bodies, familiarizing with each other’s cries of pleasure. When the sweat cooled from their bodies and their breathing stabilized, they talked for hours and hours, a blur of warm skin and deep breaths. When morning came, he found himself wanting another day with her, and he allowed himself so. When the next day arrived, he grew more selfish with his time spent with her. When she wasn’t even his to begin with. Yet. 

He blinks to find Bash snapping his fingers over his face impatiently, frown lines appearing on his forehead. 

“What’s going on with you?” 

Francis chuckles and shakes his head. 

Bash stares at Francis a few beats before continuing, like there wasn’t a long pause in the first place. “A _spark_.” As if to emphasize the word, he waves his fingers over the air dramatically, like some goddamn fairy godmother working her magic. 

“Slow down,” Francis says with a laugh, swirling his glass with a turn of his wrist to buy himself some time to recall pieces of their conversation just minutes before. 

“So it wasn’t just a hook-up?” 

“Absolutely not,” he replies confidently. Then, as if reconsidering his answer, he frowns and amends, “To me, that is.” 

Francis ponders over Bash’s answer, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe you should just text her; send her a casual and long message to tell her how you feel.” 

Bash simply gives him a slight nod, seeming to skim through options in his head. With that, Francis shakes his head in disbelief, and tells him, “I can’t believe I’m the one giving you girl advice; you’re the lady’s man, not me. All of this stuff is probably child’s play to you.” 

Bash glares at Francis, then sighs and peels at the label of his beer, knowing his brother’s words are true. 

“If it helps, Mary loves it when I text her some of the things I love about her. We used to exchange good morning texts before she moved in,” Francis offers, unable to hide a huge grin. 

Bash narrows his eyes, tapping his fingers on the bar. “You two are gross. So, you mean _sexting?”_

Francis can feel himself redden at that. “Jesus, that’s not what I meant; just let Kenna know that you’re serious about her. If she still doesn’t want to return your calls, let alone reply your texts, then so be it; you can’t make a woman’s choice for her.” 

“Wow, my little brother.” Bash looks at Francis in admiration and pats him on the back. 

Changing the subject, Francis starts, “Speaking of Mary, I—“ 

He pauses tersely when Bash pulls a face, and mutters solemnly, “Oh, please don’t flaunt your relationship with her to my face. Thanks for the concern, but I’m already prepared to die alone.” 

This is normal. Bash has a way with words, and an innate capacity for self-deprecation. 

“This is why I didn’t want to bring it up,” Francis drawls on, running a hand through his tousled hair. 

Bash’s eyes widen in concern when he sees the stress and anxiety stretched across his brother’s face. “Francis, what happened?” Bash asks carefully, putting his arm around Francis’ shoulder in a big-brotherly gesture. 

Francis heaves a sigh, stirring his drink idly. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I’m thinking of proposing to Mary tonight.” 

Francis barely finishes his sentence when Bash raises his hands to his head wildly in a gesture of shock, almost knocking over his bottle of beer in the process. He lets out a high-pitched ‘ _woohoo’_ of satisfaction, and throws his hands up into the air, like he’s just won the fucking lottery or something. 

“Why are you only telling me this now? _God_ , my poor heart cannot take it.” Bash whines, pretending to clutch at his heart, his face contorting into a pained expression. 

He doesn’t bother to pause and wait for Francis’ reply. “Wait, so you’re giving her two surprises tonight?” 

Francis gives him a head nod of affirmation, smiling to himself. 

“You’re a generous man, indeed. I raised you well,” Bash jokes, his face twisting into a Cheshire Cat’s smile. 

Francis tries not to think about how Bash constantly fought with him over the remote under the same roof, how Bash refused to share his stash of gummy bears and cookies with him, how Bash purposely avoided teaching him seventh grade math for half a year before their mother had to force him, and how Bash always slotted a mere dollar into envelopes addressed to various charity organizations, given in his school as compulsory donations to be made. 

But, no matter. 

“Thanks, man.” Francis rolls his eyes at his brother, taking another sip of his drink. 

Patting Francis’ hand with his, Bash stares at him and expresses sincerely, “I’m really happy for the two of you. Seriously, it’s about damn time.” 

Francis shakes his head with a laugh. “I know. And you’re the first person to know.” 

Wagging a finger at him, Bash replies simply with a smirk, “Priorities.” 

“Honestly, I’ve never been this stressed in my entire life,” Francis remarks dryly, letting out a deep breath, like he’s been holding it in for too long. 

Bash tries to lighten the mood with what he really excels in. “Not even when I came out of our mother’s womb; the real possibility of me, single-handedly ruining your life, shoved all in your face?” 

He grins at Bash. “Nope.” 

Francis clasps his hands on the bar and looks hard at his brother. “The problem is,” he sighs, “I don’t know how I’m going to do it – propose.” 

“Oh, seems like you’re having some ‘girl trouble’ as well.” 

“All I know is that I don’t wanna half-ass it, like hiding the ring in her food or something,” Francis says, swishing the ice in his glass around. 

“Yeah, that’s just the absolute worst,” Bash concurs with a grimace, “Your girl would be choking on her food before she could even say yes.” 

“Oh man, I haven’t even thought of that. What if Mary says no?” 

He barely finishes the last word when Bash smacks him hard on the head, and Francis winces, his hand rising to rub his head, the pain stinging. 

“God, what was that for?” 

“You’re _fucking_ crazy if you think she wouldn’t say yes. I’ve seen it in her eyes – she loves you more than anything, idiot.” 

“Okay, okay. So we assume she says yes.” 

Bash rolls his eyes, dragging his palms down his face in a show of exasperation. “Okay, go on.” 

“How do you think I should propose to her, then?” Francis asks, scratching his beard compulsively. 

“Hm.” Bash mulls it over, rubbing his finger over his chin. 

They sit in silence for a while, only hearing the rattling of ice against Francis’ glass. 

Suddenly, his brother’s head jerks up, and Francis can almost picture a brightly lit bulb floating above his head. “What is it?” He asks nervously, anticipation crawling up his throat. 

“You should hide the ring in the Christmas tree at your place.” Bash reveals with a wave of his hand, smirking at Francis. 

Francis stares at him. “What? Hide it in the tree and watch hopelessly as she hurts herself in the process of finding it?” 

“Oh my god, hold your horses, will ya? I meant, you should hang the ring on one of the branches or something; that way it wouldn’t be too obvious or too hidden,” Bash clarifies with ease. 

“Bash, that’s actually a great idea.” 

“Oh, thank you very much. Glad you came to your senses,” Bash returns flatly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Francis pulls his brother into an embrace, smiling as he says, “I know I can always count on you, brother.” 

When he pulls back, Bash is returning the smile. “All the best. You better not screw this one up,” he says, raising his beer to Francis. 

Francis lifts his glass of bourbon and clinks it against his brother’s beer bottle. 

“I know I wouldn’t. Not when it comes to Mary.” 

**** 

When he returns to the apartment, he can distinctly smell macaroni and cheese wafting out from the kitchen. 

“Francis!” 

He lets out a ‘ooph’ of surprise when Mary throws herself into his arms, giggling as he stumbles back. 

“Mary.” He smiles and plants a lingering kiss on her lips, hands cupping her neck. 

“I made you some mac and cheese in case you got hungry,” she tells him when they draw back. His eyes scan over her -- blue polka-dot pajamas, Christmas socks, hair tied in a messy bun, and Francis thinks she looks especially lovely today. However, he also notices, with a frown, dark circles under her eyelids. 

He touches her chin and asks, “Did you get some sleep?” 

“Yeah, but I couldn’t sleep much,” she admits sheepishly, “Not without you beside me.” 

He flushes at that then, feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving her alone in their apartment. Taking her hand in his, he guides her to the couch, and her yawns escape her lips uncontrollably. 

He sits down and pulls her to his lap. Adjusting herself comfortably on the couch, she rests her head on his lap and lets out a satisfied sound. By habit, he slings his arm over her waist, pulling her closer to him. 

“How’s Bash?” 

He smiles at her, twirling strands of her dark wavy hair round his finger. “He’s good.” 

“I should thank him actually, for not taking away my time with you tonight.” She says in jest and snatches his hand, playing with his fingers absent-mindedly. 

He laughs then, stroking her cheek. “You know he wouldn’t dare. He probably has plans with his friends as well.” 

They sit in silence for a few long moments, before Mary suddenly gets up. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to the kitchen to get some mac and cheese.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but Mary’s already leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m hungry too,” she smiles at him, as if answering his thoughts. 

Mary returns with two plates of macaroni and cheese, passing a plate to Francis. They sit on the couch cross-legged, and start to tuck into their food. 

Taking a bite of it, Francis lets out a sound of approval, grinning at her. “You make the best mac and cheese, Mary.” 

“Well, I ate a lot of it when I was a child; once I had mac and cheese for all three meals in a day -- can you believe it?” She mumbles in-between bites of her macaroni and cheese. 

“Then one day I decided to learn how to make it. Bought some recipe book from a bookstore, did some research…” She trails off, frowning at her already half-empty plate. 

He’s at his fifth bite when he asks, “Want some of mine?” 

She hesitates. “Well…’ 

Without a word, he transfers some of his macaroni onto her plate, and Mary beams at him. He can feel a ripple of warmth in his chest – every single damn time she smiles at him like that; it’s intoxicating. 

Mary settles her plate on the coffee table, and scoots closer to him on the couch. “Ugh,” she frowns, running her hands down the front of his grey t-shirt, where a patch of cheese from the macaroni he was eating has stained it. 

Her thin fingers trace over his t-shirt, and Francis feels _it_ again – that cavernous, aching want gaping in his chest. He looks up at her, only to find she’s biting her lip, the gesture familiarly enthralling.

 _That lip is mine to bite_. 

Placing his plate on the table, he takes one long hard look at her, his eyes searching hers for consent. Their eyes meet, and he doesn’t have to sift hers for an answer. 

They end up making out on the couch – well, this happens way too often -- for a good fifteen minutes, and Francis makes sure to cover their bodies with a thick blanket after, the cold breeze from outside prickling their skin. 

He splays his hand over her abdomen, and presses a kiss into the crook of her neck. 

**** 

He waits until she’s sound asleep to plant the engagement ring. 

It’s half-past six in the evening and she’s still drowsed next to him. He slides off the bed slowly, carefully extricating himself in the process. He’s anxious that at some point she’ll stir, but with resolute he pushes the thought to the back of his mind. It’s now or never. 

Francis strides across the living room to his record player, and reaches behind for the small black box holding the engagement ring. Yes, he hid it there all along; he knew Mary wouldn’t come close to his record player, because she rarely uses it. He knows her well, and it didn’t take him long to figure out the perfect hiding spot for the ring. 

He carefully removes the half-carat diamond ring from the box and lifts it in the air, eyes goggling at its simplicity and exquisiteness. _Mary will love it,_ he thinks with a smile. Clutching it in his palm, he walks over to the Christmas tree, and glances over the tree from top to bottom, unsure of which branch to hang the ring from specifically. Contemplating it, Francis remembers his brother’s words: not too obvious or hidden. It occurs to him the ring may be scratched from the roughness of the tree branch, and he’s definitely not going to propose to Mary with a damaged ring, not in the slightest. 

So, he decides with a sigh to keep it in the box, and balance the box on one of the branches instead. He has no idea how painfully long it would take for the box to actually balance, but he doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to rack his brains for another way, either. 

Mary is going to wake up any time soon, and he has to do it _now_. Francis tries balancing the box on several branches, letting out a grunt as it slides over the branch. He repeats the process again and again; an insufferable twenty minutes later, the box is perfectly balanced on one of the branches. He heaves a sigh of relief, as that particular branch is neither too obvious nor too hidden to notice. _Finally_. Christ. 

It’s a miracle that Mary hasn’t awoken yet. He drags his body across the room and plops himself down on the couch wearily, peering at the box from the corner of his eye. He jumps a little when he hears Mary’s voice.

“Francis, are you there?” She strolls into the room, yawning and rubbing her eyes. 

He answers all casual, trying to mask his ballooning anxiety. “Yeah, I’m here.” 

Stretching her arms, she smiles and grabs her phone from the coffee table, moving further away from the tree.

“Just so you know, I’m ordering pizza and you can’t stop me this time.” 

Mary presses a bunch of numbers on her phone and lifts it to her ear, eyes downcast. 

Well, he’s grateful for the attention she gives him and not the Christmas tree. Just a few more hours, and the torturous wait will be over. He’ll ask for her hand in marriage, and – hopefully –she’ll say yes. He thinks about it, and feels jazzed. 

Ever since he’s been dating Mary, he would try and come up with surprises for her: giving her presents for no official reason, sending flowers to her office downtown, walking her home from work, making breakfast for her – the list goes on, really. He never tires of it, despite the considerable effort; just seeing her smile and radiating with happiness makes it all the while worth it. 

So, Christmas is no exception.

He follows as she walks into the kitchen and pours herself half a glass of water on the counter. When she drinks the water in one gulp and sets the glass down, he grips her hips lightly, and tilts his head at her. 

She gasps, but doesn’t resist his hold on her. “What are you doing?” 

He smirks at her, eyes filled with mirth. “Just follow my lead.” 

Her eyes are trained on his as he backs her out of the kitchen slowly. 

She makes a sound of surprise when her back hits the wall, hands on his chest. Before she can say anything, he tells her, “Look up.”

She stares at him, bemused, before looking up. 

There’s a mistletoe pasted hastily on the wall with some scotch tape, and she bursts into giggles, smacking her hands against his chest lightly. 

“Did you –“ 

He cuts her off with a lingering kiss, relishing the taste of her lips on his. 

“No, I have _no_ idea how it got right there.” 

She laughs then, caressing his cheek. 

He can feel her breathing quicken, her voice breathy when she says, “Well, tradition must be upheld, yes?” Mary trails her fingers down his chest in a provocative manner, her eyes dimming. 

He groans as he lifts her up against the wall, her legs immediately going around his waist. He sucks on the flesh at her neck and she moans, loud enough to echo through the apartment. The pleasing sound sends a tingle of desire across his chest, and he presses his body closer to hers against the wall. She kisses him then, her mouth opening to the touch of his tongue along her bottom lip. She’s just about to change the angle of their kiss, when he bites her lip, and he can feel her legs tighten around him, her fingers tangled up in his unruly hair. 

“Francis.” She breathes, drawing back to look at him. The sight of her -- makes his knees shake a little and he feels his heart race; the way she says his name when she’s about to come undone is _maddening._ It takes every fiber of his being not to pin her against the wall whenever she says his name like that; this time, well, _never mind_. 

She presses a firm kiss to his mouth, tugging at strands of his hair, and is rewarded with a satisfied grunt from him. She deepens the kiss, and his hands skim up her sides, reaching under her pajama shirt. She drags her nails down his back, and he sucks her tongue into his mouth. She moans again, her head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. 

“My god, Mary,” he murmurs, touching his forehead to hers and catching his breath.

“Bed. Now.” He hears a hint of brisk authority in her voice, despite her slowing pants, and it thrills him beyond comprehension. 

He carries her to the mattress and sets her down, only to find she’s already reaching for him. She pulls him by the collar of his shirt, and he pushes a leg between hers, kissing her like a parched man drinks from a desert oasis. She tastes like the sweetness that’s uniquely her, and her nails dig into his scalp, and Francis is lost. They pull apart to catch their breath, and Mary’s eyes are large and dark and luminous, her expression taut with desire, with needing _him_.

“Mary,” he says, almost hoarse, and she fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. He laughs then, at her ever-growing impatience, at the way she’s smiling coyly at him despite herself. Finally, he yanks his shirt off, and she makes a frustrated noise when she can’t figure out his belt. He gets off to remove his jeans, and she giggles when he crawls back onto the bed, and slides his tongue against hers. She lets out a deep, contented sigh and murmurs, “Francis,” against his lips, and he tries to savor the way her voice sends tremors up his arms. 

He watches, mouth slack, as she strips off her pajamas before him. Her shirt, however, gets caught when she tries to yank it off her head, and she groans, vexed. They laugh, and he swiftly lifts her shirt from her head, yet careful not to hurt her ears or snag her hair in the process. When there’s nothing between them, nothing at all, he looks at her for a long moment, tracing a finger from her cheek to her collarbone. He watches with pleasure as she shivers a little at his touch, and makes a soft sound low in her throat. 

He presses a blazing trail of soft kisses from her shoulder to her neck, and she makes that sound again, this time louder and deeper. Before Francis can register it, she’s rolling a condom onto him and he’s thrusting into her. He finishes annoyingly fast, but the sight of her clutching at the slats of their headboard, back arched and face drawn with pleasure and tension, prove too much. 

Her gaze goes unfocused when he brushes his thumb across her clit, and she bites her lip, eyes fluttering closed. Muddled with how fucking _good_ her body feels against his, he whispers sweet nothings into her ear, voice laced with heavy innuendo. He disposes of the condom quickly and returns in time to kiss her through her orgasm, tongues pushing against each other, and her hips bucking up into his hands. 

“ _Fuck_.” She moans against his mouth, and the feel of her soft, wet lips against his is incredibly hedonic. Francis licks a path from her navel to the hollow of her throat, and the sight of her undone is one he tries to savor. 

 _One thing at a time,_ he thinks _._  

**** 

“We have to carb up after all that cardio,” Mary jokes, grinning at him. Sweat is cooling from their bodies, and Francis still can feel her hands ghosting along his spine.

“Pizza,” he replies, and she nods eagerly, her head pillowed on his chest. 

“Have I told you how much I like the loose curls behind your ear?” She asks, a dreamy expression on her face as she fiddles with the hair behind his ear. 

He smiles then, his arm curled around her hip. “No, you haven’t.” 

He loves it when she speaks like this, telling him mundane things she likes about him, about _them_ , with that twinkle in her eyes, and it’s so characteristic of her usual mannerisms. She’s so dear to him, and he feels his heart grow fonder with each passing second. 

“What about here?” She strokes his beard gently, peering at him through hooded eyes.

He shakes his head, feeling slightly giddy at her touch. 

Her voice drops to a whisper when she trails a finger down his stomach. “Here? I must have told you.” 

He feels his mind spinning and barely manages, “Yes, you have.” 

Mary leans in and presses a demure kiss to his shoulder, the softness of her lips tickling his skin. 

“I can’t wait to open your present for me later,” she tells him, stroking his chest, her eyes glittering. 

He reaches to tuck some stray strands of hair behind her ear, regarding her fondly. 

“And I yours.”

**** 

They’re watching Love Actually and sprawled out on the couch, his fingers running nonsense looping patterns on her arm. Hugh Grant is onscreen reading a Christmas card addressed to him, eyes widening in shock at the revelation written on it. She sighs, content and satisfied, four pizza crusts bent in L-shapes on her plate, and she curls into his side, the weight of her head heavy on his ribs. (She doesn’t like pizza crusts and he doesn’t like pineapples on pizza. They’re both weird – end of story.) Gingerly, Francis puts the half-empty bottle of coke on the floor away from his feet, lowers the volume of the movie, and moves his hand from her arm to rest simply on her hip.

His gaze keeps drifting to the black box, when he suddenly realizes with gutting horror: it’s not there.

The lights are on and it’s as clear as day – the box is _gone_. 

He tries to keep his cool and is careful not to startle Mary by making any sudden movements or inhaling heavily; she knows how he’s like when anxious. So, he throws her an excuse, not giving away anything. “Mary, I’m going over to check the ornaments on the tree; I think some of them are falling off.”

“Okay,” she nods, shifts away slightly to make room for him, and reaches for a cushion to press her face into. 

Glancing at her over his shoulder, he checks under the tree for any signs of the sparkling ring quickly, but to no avail. It must have fallen off-balance and landed on the ground; what else could it have gone? He shakes his head and curses under his breath, already predicting the worst: Mary discovering the ring somewhere a few days after, the entire surprise ruined. 

He conducts another round of searching on the ground under the tree, but there’s no diamond ring in sight. _No, this can’t be it._

His thoughts are interrupted when there’s a tap on his shoulder. He looks up to see Mary standing over him, a huge gift box in her arms. He panics for a moment, wondering if she saw him fidgeting and looking under the tree. He doesn’t have time to panic further, because Mary’s grabbing him by the hand and pulling him back to the couch. 

“I got this for you,” she presents the huge box to his face and grins at him, “Merry Christmas!” 

She leans over to kiss his cheek, and places the box on his lap. Still reeling in shock from the discovery, he forces himself to maintain his composure, and smiles back at her. 

“What’s inside?”

Mary rolls her eyes at him. “Obviously, I’m not going to tell you.” He can feel her gaze on him, all wide-eyed and expectant. 

“Open it!” She prompts him, her hands hitting his shoulder excitedly.

He rips the wrapping paper and sees a red box. Inhaling deeply, he gazes at her for a moment before opening the box – only to see another box in it, also gift-wrapped but slightly smaller in size. 

“ _God,_ Mary…”

She flashes him an innocent look and shrugs her shoulders, laughing. He groans, reaches for the nearest cushion on the couch, and tosses it at her. She dodges it easily and catches it in her hands, hugging the cushion close to her chest. 

“It better not be empty at the end, or else I’m gonna kill you,” Francis mumbles with a sense of dread, ripping off the wrapping paper on the second box -- just how many boxes are there?

The cycle of tearing and ripping paper continues when he realizes it’s another box inside the previous one, only in a different color and smaller size. Narrowing his eyes, he makes a face at Mary. She wrinkles her brow, and pulls a hideous face at him, like she’s trying to fuel a competition of _Who Can Make The Best Voldemort-like Face Ever_. 

There are some people who, no matter how hard they try, can’t seem to pull off a decent ugly face, or something even close to ugly, and Francis thinks Mary’s one of them. 

After what seems like the hundredth one, he opens the final box, mouth slack as his eyes fall on the new Coldplay record in it. He leaps to his feet and pulls her off the couch by the waist, spinning her around and peppering her neck with warm kisses. If that’s the reaction Mary was anticipating, she’s not disappointed. 

“Well, do you like it?” 

“Of course. It’s my favorite artist’s record given to me by my favorite girl.” 

He grins at her, pensive when he says, “I love you.” 

She flushes, and nods slowly. “I love you too.” 

There it is again – those four words that never fail to make his heart race. 

She shoots a look at him, one arm outstretched, as she demands playfully, “And now, for my present?” 

Francis rolls his eyes at her childish earnestness, and walks over to the Christmas tree. He reaches behind one of the boxes of unused ornaments, and lifts up a large rectangle-shaped Hello Kitty paper bag. 

“Don’t laugh; it was in the store room, and I just grabbed it randomly.”

She laughs at the Hello Kitty design, and takes the bag from his hand graciously. 

“Well, that’s really something,” she teases, taking a peak inside the bag. 

Smiling, he beckons to her. “Go on, open it.” 

He hears her gasp, placing a hand over her mouth. 

“Is this… _the_ soundtrack?” 

Gingerly, she looks at the red vinyl through its sleeve, pausing to read the message he’d written for her on a Christmas note card slotted in the sleeve as well: 

 _For My Mary,_  

_You once asked me if there were any songs that reminded me of you, and I told you there were too many to name. Then, you said our relationship could be documented in a soundtrack, which I thought to be a very fine idea. So, I complied a list of songs that remind me of you, and us, in this vinyl – our soundtrack. When you listen to these songs, I hope you’ll hold me in your thoughts, and I hope you’ll know how precious you are to me. Merry Christmas, my love._

_Francis_  

“Oh, Francis.” 

She doesn’t have to tell him she loves it; he can _feel_ more than hear her approval. 

Mary rises to wrap her arms around his middle, and buries her face in his neck. “Thank you for this,” she manages gratefully, snuffling a little. 

He smiles, and presses a kiss to her head. 

He’s briefly forgotten about the missing engagement ring when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. 

“Francis, did you receive the ring?” Catherine asks as soon as he answers the call. 

“ _What?”_ His voice drops to a hushed whisper, and he makes sure not to utter the danger word -- ‘ring’ or ‘marriage’ or ‘engagement’. 

On the other line, there’s a loud sigh. “There’s an engagement ring inside the gift bag of boxers that I mailed to you last week.” 

He feels his heart race and pads over to the kitchen. He makes a quick gesture to Mary, as if to say, _I’ll be right back._

Once he’s in the kitchen, he hisses, “Why didn’t you tell me before our dinner last night?” 

There’s silence on both sides. After collecting his thoughts, Francis puts the pieces of the puzzle together, and realizes what his mother’s intention was. He should’ve known; his mother always had a devious side to her.

Francis sighs. “You wanted to see for yourself, if I’d already made up my mind to marry her then.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t let me have a part in this, I’m your mother, for god’s sake,” Catherine accuses indignantly.

“Wait, wait, hold on.” 

He takes a deep breath. “I was going to do it tonight, but I just lost the--” 

Catherine fills in the gaps and scoffs, “You bought an engagement ring by yourself? Why--”

He’s really not in the mood to get into an argument with his mother about going ring-shopping solo. 

“Mother, please hear me out on this.” 

Another sigh from his mother, the long _what am I going to do with you_ sigh that Francis knows so well. 

“Thank you for caring about me, and Mary, even if you won’t admit it, ” Francis says simply, and he knows it’s enough for her. 

Her voice is quieter now, more brittle. “You’re very welcome, my son.” 

He smiles. “I love you, mom.” 

Catherine says it back, and he waits a moment before hanging up.

Francis rushes out of the kitchen to get ahold of the gift bag with the new ring, but Mary’s already peering in it curiously.

He nearly dives for the bag, but instead snatches it out of Mary’s grasp, and she just scowls at him like, _what the hell is wrong with you,_ and goes to sit on the couch, checking her phone for emails probably, or that Japanese cat game she’s so obsessed with.

After some rummaging, he finds the ring underneath the first few boxers, and looking at it discreetly, it’s not as beautiful as the one he picked out, but it’ll do.

In the moment, he’s at a loss. It’s like the sequence of events are all jumbled in his head, and he can’t scramble to put them back into place. The mere thought of _proposing_ is incredibly nerve-wracking; he wants, no, _has_ to deliver it perfectly to Mary. 

He hasn’t revealed the ring yet; his hands are still in the bag, fingering the thinness of the ring. 

He’s startled out of his wits when he sees Mary standing next to him, and eyes averted, he starts stammering incoherently, “I wasn’t—It--It was supposed to balance on the tree branch and—“ 

Mary puts a finger to his lips, her gaze raking over his face. 

_This is it. The moment is now._

Francis clears his throat, gets down on one knee, and takes her hand in his.

He doesn’t think, because there is simply no thinking required. Suddenly, he feels like his entire life has been leading right up to this moment. The words come naturally to him, like the tide returning to kiss the shore at sunrise, after pulling out to sea. 

“Mary, you entered my life seven months ago. When our eyes locked for the first time, I was hopelessly pulled into your world; I remember myself desperately wanting to drown in the depths of those dark eyes of yours. Little did I know, you’re the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, and there is nothing clearer to me.” 

His gaze hyper focuses on Mary, watching as she goes completely still. 

“Over the past seven months, I have fallen in love with you repeatedly, in the simplest of things -- the way you bite your lip, completely oblivious to the pull it has on me, the way you kiss me on the sidewalk like nobody’s looking, the way you smile that breathtaking smile granted for me only, and I feel the world coming to a stop in the span of those long seconds, in awe of such beauty. I say it now, and I’ll remind you again and again -- I love you, and I will love you until the day I die. Mary Stuart, will you do me the honor and make me the happiest man alive?”

Grinning, he reveals the ring and holds it out to her. 

“Marry me.” 

Mary makes a croaked sound, and her face breaks into a wide smile, the banks of her eyes brimming with tears. 

“Yes. _Yes!”_

He rises to kiss her on the mouth, chaste because they’re both smiling. They pull back, and she strokes the hair behind his ear with both hands, and her face is one of pure joy and gratitude. She lets out a surprised sound when he snakes his arms around her waist, lifts her above his head, and spins her around, her hands knotting around his neck. 

“This feels so right,” he says when he releases her, and it’s true. 

“I know.” She nuzzles her nose with his, their foreheads touching. Holding up the ring, she admires it in the ceiling light. 

“It’s beautiful, Francis.” 

She holds her breath as he draws back to wear the ring on her finger. 

“Is it too early to start calling you my wife?” 

Mary chuckles, batting her eyelids at him. “Never.” 

“Okay, _wife.”_

It rolls off his tongue so easily; he’s certain it won’t take long for him to get used to it. 

“ _Husband.”_ She drags the term on her lips cheekily, and a giggle escapes her lips. 

Later, they dance. The Goo Goo Dolls’ ‘Come to Me’ plays in the background, and they balter around the living room in reckless abandon, laughter filling the air. Mary’s an arrhythmic mess especially, screaming _I love this song_ over the music with rapture, until Francis pulls her against him, back to front, and sways in time to the music, hips pressed against each other. Mary turns to face him, and she’s glowing like a burning star, eyes smiling and gaze blistering, so hot it could burn.

A surety rises in him then, lodged in his throat.

****

He wakes up the next morning to find Mary curled around him, the ring on her finger, and Francis thinks he has all the answers to _forever_.

**Author's Note:**

> i also wanna wish everyone a happy new year in advance!!! here's to a great 2016 for all of you
> 
> edit: if you wanna talk to me about frary come drop me a message on tumblr!! i go by @crystalswifts there :~)


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